


Chivalry Fell on His Sword

by Queerapika



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Slice of Life, War, also chubby Mercedes is life chubby Mercedes is love, birthday fic, implied anxiety/ptsd in part 2, minor deviations from canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerapika/pseuds/Queerapika
Summary: During their first encounter with the Death Knight, Ferdinand von Aegir makes a mistake that nearly costs his life. In an effort to repent for it, he wants to learn how to heal, and he is not the only one. His choices bring him closer to his classmates, especially the one he would have liked to avoid.Meanwhile, Hubert struggles with the fact that he has a heart that is capable of fondness.War is perhaps the worst time to come to terms with one's romantic inclinations and Ferdinand has to stumble before he can learn to embrace it.Hubert is watching this change from a distance, yearning, but never quite selfish enough to confess to his feelings.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir & Dorothea Arnault, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 19
Kudos: 252





	1. In Death's Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zenelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenelly/gifts).



> Happy (belated) birthday, Zenelly! You are a radiant and beautiful person, who also does words real good, and I am so glad to know you. May you have a wonderful year.
> 
> (Also, this is my first work for this fandom and I've been quite excited to write these two fools for the first time. I will follow canon as far as I remember it or have researched it.)

_Somebody broke me once, love was a currency_  
_a shimmering balance act; I think that I laughed at that_  
_And I saw your face and hands coloured in sun and then_  
_I think I understand_

The Bleachers, “Don’t take the money”

* * *

Ferdinand von Aegir would have liked to believe that, should he ever have to stare death in the face, he'd remain calm, collected. His status as a noble demands nothing less. Still, he has not expected for it to happen so soon, nor did he think that the grim reaper would turn out to be quite so corporeal.

The air in the holy mausoleum is cold and stuffy, suffocating. The worried shouting of his classmates and professor echo along the naked walls, the high ceiling.

Reinforcements have arrived in the back, effectively trapping them. If they were not careful this tomb could become _their_ tomb. Most of Ferdinand's classmates had already pushed far ahead, taking out foes left and right under the professor's calculated order. But Linhard has stayed behind, keeping away from the thick of the fight and healing them from afar, when healing was necessary. And now that very strategy which meant to protect him had isolated him and put him in grave danger.

Caspar runs to his aid, screaming a most ridiculous war cry, all but stumbling in his new brigand’s uniform. Ferdinand reaches for the reins of his horse, to turn it around-

And the death knight let out a low, hollow laugh that twists something in Ferdinand's gut. The horse shies, sensing his fear, and he struggles to get it back under control. Somewhere, arrows fly and clutter on the marble floor. Dorothea screams.

"I'm not afraid of you," Ferdinand mutters, wiping the sweat from his brow. And he is _not_ , he cannot be _._ Edelgard certainly pushed past the black rider and his devil's mask, his red glowing eyes, without a second thought. She had told them not to engage. But there must have been a reason for the Death Knight's presence in this tomb. And if it was not to strike them down, then-

To scare them? Could it be? 

Ferdinand's mind is racing. What if the scary mask and the ridiculously large scythe were just for show? What if the whole purpose of the Death Knight was to spread a sense of horror - very successfully, one might add - and to crush their morale?

There is only one way to find out. And, Ferdinand realizes, if he is right, and if he bests the Death Knight, he will achieve something that even Edelgard has not dared to do.

His hand tightens around his lance. He takes a deep breath. No looking back, no wasting time on second thoughts. He must not falter.

"I am...", he says, low under his breath. Trying to focus, trying to ignore the way his hairs rise on the back of his neck.

He digs his heels in the flank of his mare and charges.

Something strange happens. 

One moment the tip of his lance iss aimed right at the Death Knight, and then he _blinks_ and the black horse leaps to the side like a prancing show pony. Ferdinand rushes past his enemy; he pulls hard on the reigns-

And then a tinny sound, like something humming through the air. A force strikes him in the ribs, knocking Ferdinand clean off his horse. The room spins around him, the ceiling tips as he is weightless-

Until he is not.

Ferdinand crashes on the floor, hard, his left shoulder taking the brunt of the fall, next the side of his head smacks against the mable. The impact rattles through his skull, chased by a radiating pain that drowns out all thought. The world turns blank.

When he comes to - when his body begins to regain shape as a number of warring sensations, so many different flavors of pain - he realizes that something is very, very wrong. Numbness spreads from under his right armpit. His shirt is soaking wet, warm, so at odds with the cold tingling in his right arm. As for his left arm, he does not feel it at all.

And there's screaming, and hooves hitting the floor in his field of vision, the sound of feet shuffling with cautious apprehension. Above all, a hoarse voice screams for Linhardt, for Dorothea. It takes Ferdinand one, two rasping breaths to make sense of the pandemonium and of how badly he fucked up.

His offensive action has set the Death Knight into action. With a manic laugh, the grim reaper swings his sense, charging right at Ferdinand’s friends.

And he is lying on the floor, motionless like a broken doll, bleeding out from a gash in his side that is Seiros knows how deep-

The world tilts again; Ferdinand is half aware of being moved as the ceiling comes into vision for only a moment until it is blocked out by a shadow with two wide, gold-green eyes.

"You fool," Hubert hisses, and he almost chokes on the words. "What in all the Saints’ names were you thinking? You doomed us all."

Pressure and pain in his side. Ferdinand thinks that it is quite unfair of Hubert to hurt him so when he is already down. He may have even said so out loud, but his mind grows fuzzy, and the sounds become distant, as if his ears had been stuffed with balls of cotton.

Hubert screams for Dorothea again-

And then everything is gone.

* * *

Hubert, wrapped in shadows. He stands so very still, his too upright back pressed flush against the hallway walls. Guarding the entrance of the infirmary like the world's most lifelike statue, glaring with murderous intent at any student that dared to come near.

Tension balls his hands to fist and winds the muscles of his arms, because if he lets go for even one minute, he would start to tremble and falter and that is something Hubert von Vestra can not afford.

He always knew that their path would be bloody, and he is prepared to end lives with a drip of poison, a shock of dark magic or a dagger striking unseen, twisting into soft and vulnerable flesh. Quick and precise. But he has to learn that not all deaths are equal.

Some are slow and stupid and cruel and, damnation, he was not meant to witness his clumsy, incompetent classmates bleed out under his very hands.

(If he closes his eyes, he can still smell the metallic tang of blood, can feel it soaking his gloves and sticking to his skin and he sees stupid Ferdinand von Aegir's eyes losing focus-)

The infirmary door swings open: Professor Byleth steps into the hallway, battle-weary and more bleak eyed than usual, even by her standards. 

Hubert stirs.

Byleth does not start, but her gaze sharpens. 

"She will be alright," the professor says, before Hubert has the chance to ask. "All she needs is rest. You too."

At any other time, he would have appreciated Byleth Eisner's habit of making as few words as possible, in fact he would have deemed it her most redeeming trait after her tactical skills. But he isn't feeling like himself tonight. And he needs answers, not advice. 

"I was not concerned about Lady Edelgard. It would take far more to shake her."

The professor's brow furrows slightly. Her lack of... _expressiveness_ makes it hard to tell if worry or disbelief lies behind that face. "It was a hard battle."

"It was a _disaster_ ," Hubert spits. "And all because von Aegir had to provoke an enemy far stronger than any of us! Bernadetta started to run like a frightened mouse. This cannot happen again."

Byleth raises her hand. "Tomorrow. Not tonight. We all need rest. And Ferdinand will have a lot of time to think about his mistake in the infirmary."

_So he lives_. Hubert breathes out and rubs the jaw that he has clenched subconsciously for far too long. And with his breath, the tension in his shoulders and arms dissipates as well. By sheer luck, they have not lost anyone. But luck is not a thing to rely on; before their next battle they need to train and expand their skill set, they need to prepare for stronger, more cunning enemies. Because war is not going to wait until they are ready for it.

The professor had to see this. How could she bear to waste even one more night?

"I need to talk to you in private," Hubert says.

"Do you want to offer more threats?", Byleth asks. A smile settles on her lips, faint but unmistakable. "Come on, then. I'll make tea."

Hubert von Vestra has never been one to feel shy, although entering Professor Byleth's quarters does leave him with a quaint unease. The room holds very little personal belongings and from what he can tell, the laden desk is the only spot that is used too frequently to bother cleaning. Even the bed looks so prim and proper as if no one has slept in it for quite some time.

Hubert wonders if Seteth knows about the ledgers that the dear professor borrows from the library. Or the syphon that she keeps in her room. Byleth beckons Hubert to sit as she fills the device with tea leaves and sets it to boil with a magical flame. For lack of options, Hubert claims her desk chair and sits down.

He takes a peek at the notes spread out over her desk. Most of it is written in a near-illegible scrawl. There are some drawings that he recognizes as battalion formations, and sketches of crests and magical circles. Advanced spells. The speed with which she picks up these things was remarkable.

Slowly, the aroma of cinnamon spreads in the room.

Byleth moves back to her desk while the tea leaves steep and starts gathering documents to piles, making room on the small work surface of the desk. She sets down two cups, inquires Hubert to wait, and steps out for barely a minute until returning with a cargo crate. She drops the crate in front of the desk and fetches the syphon.

"What did you want to talk about?", Byleth asks, as she pours him a cup of tea. She fills her own cup next and seats herself on the crate.

Hubert stares into the amber tea. Gingerly, he takes a sip and finds it... passable. Enjoyable, even. He always fancied a pinch of cinnamon in his coffee, and he has to admit that it pairs nicely with tea. Has his teacher paid that close attention to his preferences then, or is this a mere coincidence? 

"I wish to learn white magic," he says, still glowering at his drink.

"Why?"

"Surely you have noticed how we found ourselves short of healing power today, the moment our little class was scattered over the battlefield. Right now, we can only rely on Dorothea and Linhardt - and you, Professor, although I would argue that you are most useful to us in the heat of the battle, pushing forward. And as it is of utmost importance that no harm comes to Lady Edelgard, I reckon it cannot hurt to expand our number of healers. It is my duty to stand by Lady Edelgard's side and guard her and I am already well versed in dark magic, so it stands to reason that I should try my hand at healing as well."

Byleth's eyes narrowed. "Your magic potential may be strong, but healing requires faith."

"One can have faith in many things. I, for example, have faith in my Lady and the future she will create for the empire."

The professor sips on her tea, still watching him over the rim of her cup. Considering. When she puts it down again, she says: "I was talking about spirituality. I will teach you as best as I can and you should be able to pick up the basics, but I don't see you making much progress beyond that."

Hubert would have liked to point out that the professor kept encouraging Dorothea to study the faithly magic despite her struggles with the subject. Still, it is not like he has any ambitions to become a member of the church anytime soon.

"One or two spells will suffice. So I can buy some time until a more skilled healer can arrive."

"Fine," Byleth says. She takes another long sip from her tea and closes her eyes to savor the taste. "You can start your lessons by practising some self-restraint."

"I am the model of self-restraint," Hubert croons.

"Good. Because while you are learning, you will keep your distance from Ferdinand. No arguing, no blaming, no trying to punish him. If you ignore these rules, you can turn to Professor Manuela for your studies."

Hubert chokes on his tea.

* * *

Life hits Ferdinand with all the force of a loaded carriage. He wakes sore, a dull pain pulsing through his limbs and side, his head feels twice its size and - like a rotten cherry on a foul dessert - his tongue feels dry and fuzzy in his mouth. If he had the strength, he would roll over and pull the blankets over his head. Block out the world and continue sleeping for another, say, five years. At least until the monastery has forgotten about the day when Ferdinand von Aegir nearly killed himself and-

Saints, how many lives did his mistake cost?

Ferdinand opens his eyes and beholds the wood-paneled ceiling and prim white bedding of the infirmary. He pulls his shoulders together and buries his hands in the covers, trying to pull himself up, when a sharp pain sears through his shoulder joint and he collapses again, groaning.

Heels click on the floor and in a flurry, Professor Manuela is at his side, pushing him down.

"Oh no no no, you are in no position to get up."

"Professor, I need to-"

"Do you have any idea how lucky you were!" Manuela's voice spirals higher, louder - it feels like a blade piercing his head. "I didn't even know where to start fixing you. Well, aside from stopping the bleeding." She lets out an aggravated sigh and starts listing up his injuries. A deep gash in his ribs from the Death Knight’s scythe. His left shoulder had been dislocated and he has likely suffered a concussion from when he hit his head.

"-And as soon as I got my hands on you, the whole class started talking at me at once as if that could make me work faster! And then that Vestra boy stormed in, all soaked in blood, with a mad glint in his eyes..."

Ferdinand tries to sit up again, but Manuela pushes him down once more; the movement makes her bosom shake and for one short, panic-filled moment, Ferdinand fears that her breasts will escape her dress and smack him in the face.

"Luckily, it was all yours, though. Well, not lucky for you. So you see why I cannot possibly let you leave."

"My friends - did anyone else get hurt? Please, Professor, I have to know." 

Her expressions softens from annoyance to concern. "Not as bad as you," Manuela says low under her breath. "Which reminds me. There's someone who asked to see you, as soon as you wake up. Wait a moment, I'll fetch her."

As if he has a choice. Ferdinand watches her disappear and lets his head fall back on the pillow, stifling a groan. That Edelgard would not waste a minute to reprimand him...

But the girl at Manuela's heel is not Edelgard. Ferdinand catches glimpses of auburn hair and dark green eyes and shimmering golden earrings.

"I'll give you a few minutes of privacy. Mind that he doesn't do something stupid, like trying to get up."

"Of course, Professor Manuela," Dorothea promises. And then she stands before his bed, turning her clever hat in her hands, looking more nervous that he had ever seen her. And he cannot take his eyes off her. He barely registers the infirmary door closing.

Ferdinand does not know what to say. Last time they were alone, she had told him to his face that she hated him. Had she come to repeat the sentiment? Correct it for the worse, perhaps, if a worse thing could be found?

"Well, Ferdie!", Dorothea exclaims with a wide, forced smile. She pulls up a chair and sits, crossing her legs. "I have to say, you gave us quite a scare."

"Dorothea, I-"

"You stupid, arrogant fool. What in the godess' name were you thinking?"

He says nothing. Because even if he could put down his reasoning in words - it seems all so petty and insignificant now. He could not even justify it to himself. "Are the others truly alright? How- how did we escape the Death Knight? And the tomb-"

"We defeated him. Thanks to the professor, and Edie- she took a bit of a hit, but you know her, she wasn't going to let that stop her."

Of course. It is not enough that she surpasses him with such ease, without even caring for the challenge. Now she is fixing his messes too?

"-and Petra! You should have seen her, dancing out of the reach of his scythe, how she parried- she landed the final blow, before he disappeared. Pray that we never see him again."

Ferdinand does not think they will be this lucky. "I'm sorry. I truly am."

"And you should. Don't you ever do something so dangerous again! When you were lying there on the ground, bleeding out... we all thought you were done for. Even Hubert, I don't think I have ever seen him so pale before. Like a marble statue."

Ferdinand thinks, _but he always looks cut out of marble_ . Thinks, _it's a miracle he has not poisoned me in my sleep, if Edelgard was hurt by my fault._ But he remembers faintly that Hubert was the first to come to his aid.

"And you better get well soon. Bernie is so shaken, she didn't even show up for class today. You need to come back and be your obnoxious self. Show her that you're not afraid, despite what happened to you."

"I promise."

Ferdinand decides that it will take a lot of work to repent. He will have to ask for forgiveness from his classmates, his professor - and the goddess. He ought to give her his thanks as well, for not taking him from this life. And for showing him in his fall that more people care for him than he was aware of. Even Dorothea - despite insisting that she hated him, she is anxious about his recovery. Maybe there is hope for a friendship between them yet.

* * *

"I want to learn healing magic."

Byleth has barely taken a step into the infirmary when she hears the words that make her want to turn and walk away again. It is her second visit, three days after Ferdinand regained consciousness. He is recovering fast: he sits on the bed upright, back straight, in his eyes a spark as if he meant to leap out and slay some old and terrible beast of legends. Professor Manuela even promised that he might take a walk today.

So, his enthusiasm should have pleased Byleth, if not for the fact that she had come here from her first lesson with Hubert. Her first, disastrous lesson.

She asks Ferdinand the same question as she had Hubert: _why_?

They are both headstrong young man, who seem to know exactly what they want from life, the path they will take to reach their goals. Ferdinand in particular has a firm grasp on how to apply himself to his studies in a way that employs his strengths - acquiring a rank in a magical class does not fit into the picture.

"I just feel like it is my duty as a noble and a knight to protect the weak - but even so, I cannot stop everyone from getting hurt. But if I aimed for a position as a Holy Knight-"

"You're feeling guilty," Byleth says, before Ferdinand can finish his ludicrous thought. Holy Knight? He has not yet finished his soldier’s training. "Which will pass. You should not derail your education based on one mistake that you made."

"Professor," Ferdinand tries again. His smile grows strained. "This really is important to me."

"Your magical talent is very faint. Even if I you master a few spells, you might not use them to their full potential. It may never be an asset in battle-"

"I will spend more hours in the library, dedicating myself to the theoretical aspect of magic. I already attend sunday service and I will further join every choir rehearsal - all I ask of you are some practical lessons. If you can spare a little bit of your time." 

Byleth considers. She does not doubt his eagerness - he will apply himself to the task as he will apply himself to everything else: with great enthusiasm and a need to strive for perfection. And therein lies the problem. Just how much exactly, can he put on his own shoulders? At some point he will crumble under the weight of his duties.

"Alright. As things are, you're not the only one with this request; you can join our additional training once you are fully recovered."

"Who is the other student?"

"Does it matter?", Byleth asks. She crosses her arms and shifts her weight a little, seizing him up.

"It does not. I was merely curious." Ferdinand nods, overly courteous. "Thank you for the opportunity, professor."

She wonders how grateful he will be once he shows up for his first lesson.

* * *

Byleth does not tell Hubert about Ferdinand’s intention to join them. To do so would be a tactical error. He is already displeased by her choice of location (the cathedral) and the new student that she convinced to join their class: Mercedes von Martritz. Her healing skills are exactly what Hubert insisted the Black Eagle house is lacking and in Byleth's eyes, her devotion to the goddess makes her a good advisor on how to learn white magic.

But in her presence, Hubert bristles up. During their first extracurricular lesson, he became tight-lipped and defensive the moment Mercedes stepped into the cathedral. And his face twisted in disgust when she described how she drew her strength from prayer, and the certainty that the goddess was watching over every soul in Fodlàn. He even chuckled at the notion that there lay a spark of divinity in every living being.

So, the first lesson turned out a minor failure, with Hubert stomping off to the library to research white magic sigils, which he considered a better use of his time, leaving Mercedes - not offended, but confused. Byleth apologized and thanked the girl on both of their behalf and decided that Mercedes was excused from assisting for the coming lessons. 

She can only assume to what sort of recalcitrant behaviour Hubert will turn once Ferdinand joins them. So, she needs a different approach. And a different location, too. 

Ferdinand is released from the infirmary three days before the second lesson, which would have been fortunate - except when Byleth arrives at the greenhouse one hour before dinner, only Hubert shows.

"I did not grow up believing in the goddess or any other divine force," Byleth says as she nicks the back of her hand with the tip of a dagger, just deep enough to draw pinpricks of blood. Her attention skitters back to the greenhouse door every now and then. It does not reflect well on a noble to arrive late for a preset arrangement, so she wonders what could possibly be holding him up. Had Hubert found out about him joining and then ensured that Ferdinand would stay away? A drop of poison perhaps in his afternoon tea?

"I still have no spiritual guidance of any sort. But if I need to heal, I just. _Do_. It's nothing I can explain. Someone needs and I provide. All I can say is that the magic feels more like a pour or a stream, something steady, not like the conscious buildup that is needed for an attack. And the nosferatu spell is healing, too, but in reverse. I draw power from another person. The pain it causes them is a mere side effect, because they are unwilling. Because I am taking what is theirs by force."

She holds out her hand. "Now I'm the one who is in need. Go ahead."

"And you expect me to perform, just like that?", Hubert says, a mocking lilt to his voice.

"Manuela says the key to healing is humility and caring."

"If that were true neither she nor Linhardt should excel at this."

"For a start, we could try with less sarcasm and more empathy," Byleth suggests, unimpressed.

Gingerly, he takes her hand. His pale green eyes bear down on the cut and his face darkens in concentration until he looks as if he intends to _murder_ the injury. Well. He cannot be blamed for defaulting to what he knows. Byleth grants her student a minute of homicidal staring, before she pulls back again.

"This isn't working." She sighs, and picks up her dagger. "I'm making a deeper cut."

"Why ever would you do that?", Hubert protests. "If I cannot even tend to a scratch, I will not be able to treat something deeper."

"Is that a hint of concern?", Byleth asks.

"Hardly."

"Because that might be just what we need-"

One of the greenhouse's doors swings wide open as Ferdinand von Aegir puts most of his weight against it. He uses his shoulder to leverage, as his arms are occupied with a large basket of... something. 

"I am so sorry for my late arrival!", he calls out, somewhat out of breath. "I had to make another unplanned stop at the infirmary because of a kitchen accident. But on the bright side, I brought-" Ferdinand takes three steps in before he spots Hubert, and freezes. 

Hubert's face freezes as well. "What is _he_ doing here?"

"Studying, same as you," Byleth replies, before beckoning Ferdinand closer. "Come closer, you have not missed much. Are those... cookies?"

"I, ah, well, I tried my hand at baking. These are some of the better results," Ferdinand explains as he approaches, more sheepishly now. "They are called thumbprints. Mercedes helped me pick out the recipe."

Hubert's mood sours at the mentioning of Mercedes' name, but even he cranes his neck to get a better look at the treats. He picks one with a red jam core, not waiting for permission, and pops it into his mouth. 

"Horrible," he remarks, still chewing. "Dry as dust and barely baked through around the edges. Amateur's work."

Ferdinand huffs. "And how would you know? I do not recall you liking sweets, so what comparison would you have?"

"I’m merely saying, I could do better than that on any day."

Ferdinand throws back his head and laughs, loudly, dramatically, mocking. "Forgive me, but no one in their right mind would even let you _near_ a kitchen-"

"Pastries are an excellent way to administer poison. Especially the glazed ones." Despite his complaints, Hubert goes for a second cookie.

"Ferdinand, may I see your hand?", Byleth interrupts before the conversation can turn to open threats. 

Ferdinand hesitates; he claims that it's not a lovely sight, nothing he would impose on his dear professor. Still, he puts his basket down and offers his hand. "A minor burn. Professor Manuela said it will heal on its own as long as I keep it clean and don't poke at the blisters - it's not the dominant hand, so as long as you give me a light sword, I can still fight."

Byleth makes a pensive noise. She tugs at the gauze and unravels the bandage with the utmost care. The skin is red, with pale, water-filled blisters rising from it. It radiates heat. Byleth places a careful fingertip against the tender skin.

Ferdinand breathes in sharply, but does not flinch. His shoulders tense.

"Looks painful," Byleth remarks.

"It still... _stings_. But that is nothing compared to what I had to endure in battle."

"Especially in light of recent injuries," Hubert adds. He eyes the basket, but his pride keeps him for claiming a third cookie.

"Hubert." Byleth looks at him, sternly. "How would you like to try the healing spell again?"

Ferdinand pales. More than ever, he insists that a magical invention is not necessary, that it will heal just fine on its own, but Byleth fixes him with the same hard stare she reserves for the battlefield. "He will not hurt you." Her tone leaves no room for declining.

Hubert chuckles. He takes off his gloves. "Our dear professor is right. If I wished to hurt you, I had more efficient means to do so." His smile is cruel and sharp, at odds with the gentle way his left hand slips unter Ferdinand's to support it. His right index finger hovers-

Hubert von Vestra has seen his classmate’s hands set to work many a times. He has witnessed them brushing over the glossy coat of a horse as they were biding their time on stable duty. He has seen them wrap around a lance, seize the hilt of an axe or raise a sword. He has seen them perform flourishes in the air whenever Ferdinand loses himself in one of his grand speeches about nobility and, whenever he was distraught, Ferdinand would press his fingertips against his left temple. Hubert knows how these hands ought to look and move.

He has also seen them tremble as Ferdinand lay on the marble floor of the mausoleum, struck down. It's this memory that Hubert draws on, remembering the shock that seized his chest, and the feeling of having someone's life run out of their body-

_The magic feels more like a pour or a stream, something steady_ , the professor had said.

Hubert holds his breath as he draws the draws the sigil. He imagines, no, he _wants_ Ferdinand von Aegir whole again. He doesn't ever want to feel as powerless ( _helpless_ ) as he did in their last battle.

The air around them grows warmer.

The sigil completes itself and for a moment it glows brightly in the air - then the light settles into Ferdinand's skin, which takes up a healthier color. Blisters dry and shrink into mere callouses. 

"You did it," Ferdinand says low under his breath.

"No need to sound so surprised," Hubert retorts. But he can feel the eyes of the professor settling on him. Her smile, too, a thing so rare. He could almost trust her when she smiled like that, if he allowed himself to forget about the shadow that seemed to lurk behind her stoicity. For now she was only herself: proud and teasing.

"See? I told you it's a matter of caring."

Ferdinand lets out a noise of confusion and Hubert does not meet his eyes.

* * *

Magic lessons alternate with sparring and riding sessions when the professor suggests that Hubert could benefit from becoming a Dark Knight, if only for the increased mobility on the battlefield. He has to admit that it will be an asset once Lady Edelgard starts to set her plan - and her troops - in motion. Not that the professor needs to know about this particular detail.

But she is observant.

She keeps positioning him close to von Aegir on the battlefield, almost as if she noticed, that-

Well. It is almost too embarrassing to admit to himself, but while his magic is strong, his ability to heal proves fickle. _Particular_. It comes easier to him when he works it on someone he is close with, or someone he has had to keep a close eye on. Lady Edelgard belongs in the first category, the professor and Ferdinand in the latter. He rather leaves the healing of his other classmates to Linhardt or Mercedes. Even Dorothea shows much promise as a healer - these days, her eyes are filled with purpose and she is less preoccupied with chasing after men.

It is just as well. Suppose he had the time to look after his classmates, get to know them better, he could become a better healer. But it is not the path he has chosen. Ferdinand is also first and foremost a fighter, a knight, always throwing himself into the fray. He learned how to cast wards - a pity that he cannot cast them on himself, because, _saints_ , he is far too vulnerable to magic.

But when they are sent out on smaller missions like clearing the streets of thieves, Ferdinand is allowed to fall back and tend to the smaller injuries of his comrades and he does so enthusiastically. Why, sometimes Hubert even catches him smiling. He seems... a lot less uptight, carefree almost, when he allows himself to not excel for once.

Hubert has to admit, he likes this side of Ferdinand much better than the driven, self-important fop who constantly obsesses over how noble he presents himself. And he appreciates the patience with which Ferdinand teaches lancefaire - he moves slow, focusing on technique first and speed second. Soon, their lances meet in practised choreography and they thrust and parry as quick as banter.

Ferdinand puts little weight behind his thrusts, so as not to harm his sparring partner, but Hubert still bears his fair share of marks from the lessons; his pale skin bruises easily. But in the evening, he falls to bed tired, weary, and sleeps better than he has in years.

* * *

Just as Hubert grows comfortable with the steady rhythm of school life, the preparations he and Lady Edelgard had made come to their sweet conclusion and she strikes - 

And drags war to the front steps of the church.

Suddenly, order is replaced by chaos. Classmates and allies gather their belongings in haste and move from the monastery to the secret base that the Empire has prepared months ago. They lose... 'friends' along the way, but no one that Hubert has not expected to leave. Little Flayn and Rhea's overeager fanboy, Cyril, are no great loss, but Catherine is someone he loathes to meet on the battlefield. He has no illusion that she could cleave him in two. And-

He scans the groups of people that arrive, searching for a shimmer of bronze locks. Grows alert everytime he hears the sound of hooves. He does not know why he expects Ferdinand to join their ranks, to march against the church he values so much. Or why his absence irks so. Ferdinand is a golden boy, swaddled with privilege, drunk with romantic ideas about nobility. Naturally, he would reject the path that Lady Edelgard has chosen. How could he not?

The ground begins to tremble ever so slightly with the weight and sound of horses approaching. A guard calls out, they raise their weapons-

"Wait!-" Hubert cries out, peering into the dusk twilight.

A cloud of dust rises behind the four slender horses that draw near, in pairs of two. All but one have riders. Hubert can make out the tall form and questionable haircut of Lorentz Hellman Gloucester and, riding next to him in bright and portly contrast, Mercedes von Martritz. Her, of all people! The most devout and soft woman that has ever walked the cold earth-

And then a whistle cuts through the air and the rider in the rear waves enthusiastically. Relief takes Hubert by force, almost sweeps his feet out from under him like a well aimed lance strike.

"Stand down," he orders the guards; his voice hoarse. He moves forward as if in a dream.

The group brings their horses to a stop before the entrance. Lorentz starts some speech with a flourish of his hand, but Hubert pays him no mind. He walks past and snatches the reins of Ferdinand's horse before the cavalier can dismount.

"You're late," Hubert says, although the words do not come out quite as harsh as he planned.

To his dismay, Ferdinand grins. "On the contrary! I am just in time to supply friends and mounts."

Hubert wants to ask if Ferdinand really thinks that Lady Edelgard would not have considered supplying horses for her coup, but before he can voice the thought with the appropriate sarcasm, Ferdinand seizes him by the wrist and bows his head down, closer. Hubert's mind draws blank.

"Please," Ferdinand whispers. "Don't send them away. I will personally vouch for Lorentz and... Mercedes has nowhere else to go."

"What about Dimitri? Surely, her old friends from the Blue Lion house will gladly take her back-"

"Dimitri has gone mad," Mercedes says, looking over her shoulder to regard Hubert with a defiance that he had not expected from her. Ferdinand sits up straight again, and releases Hubert’s wrist.

"There was always something... sad about him," Mercedes continues. "Something that he could not let go of. Every now and then, he would lose control and become wild and cruel, crying for blood and revenge and he would revel in his fantasies of slaughter."

"And you would prefer my company over his?", Hubert challenges.

"With him, it's not just an _act_ to scare others," she retorts. She might as well have slapped him in the face. "He's talks to people that are long dead, and he keeps on crying for Edelgard’s head."

"Not on my watch," Hubert growls. Although even he has to admit that Dimitri is a dangerous enemy and if he truly has gone mad... he'd be unpredictable.

"Before I left, Dedue was trying to convince him to flee."

"Claude is also preparing for his escape as we speak," Lorentz chimes in. He turns his horse around, better to stare haughtily down on Hubert. "As far as he is concerned, the conflict lies only between the church and the Empire. He will likely not interfere until we march against Alliance territory."

_We._ They are already speaking as if they have been accepted among Lady Edelgard's ranks - and to his side, Hubert can practically feel Ferdinand's buzzing impatience.

He has to make a decision, then, if he trusts Ferdinand's judgment. Throughout the last year, Hubert's regard for his classmate has grown. Ferdinand may still be irritating and naive, but he has learned from his past mistakes. He could be humble sometimes, he does not charge into action quite so rashly anymore - taking up the role of a shield rather than a battering ram. He listens and weighs options instead of enforcing his own ideas upon others. And he picks his friends carefully. _These_ friends.

Ferdinand is... _an asset,_ Hubert decides. It is the safest, most objective term he can settle on.

Because somewhere between the fighting lessons and the cookie taste testing, and the rushed, clumsy healing spells they exchanged on the battlefield, Hubert may have developed a... tolerance for the other man. A concern, perhaps. He would not go so far to call it a fondness.

"I'm sure Lady Edelgard is grateful for every soul that wants to join our cause. Now come on in. The longer you lurk, the bigger the risk that we will be discovered."

Ferdinand offers his unbearably enthusiastic smile again and dismounts; Lorentz follows his example and then turns to Mercedes, to aid her. She is clumsy and not used to riding, which almost - almost! - makes Hubert feel sympathetic.

He instructs one of the guards with caring for the horses and leads the newcomers inside, where they are greeted with shouts of surprise and delight.

Later, when the tumult has died down and the students in the camp struggle to find sleep, Ferdinand is still up, still quick on his feet, handing out blankets to those who might need it and stopping to exchange a few words. Hubert is in silent pursuit, watching, ambling across the grounds while still keeping to the shadows, on a path that never takes him too far from his classmate. His hands clutch around a staff, his fingertips run over all the ridges and edges, the finely carved details that are for decorum’s sake rather than functionality.

Hubert has never been one for fiddling, because fiddling is a sign of nervousness, a luxury he cannot afford. And what an unnecessary thing to fuss over: he has approached Ferdinand before, many times. This isn't any different.

Ferdinand rises from his crouch, and gives the hand that reaches for him a final, reassuring squeeze.

And then he turns and seems to look right at Hubert.

Hubert resist the urge to shrink deeper into the darkness.

Ferdinand steers right towards him. "I need to get some fresh air. Would you accompany me?"

"Incidentally, I was going to ask the same thing."

Ferdinand makes a _hm_ -noise, as if he does not quite believe it, but he doesn't dwell. He strides ever forward, his steps speeding up until Hubert has difficulty keeping up without falling into a sprint. The guards let them pass once they see Hubert - he and the Emperor are the only ones to leave without objecting to questions.

"We cannot go too far," Hubert states as he steps out. "Saints, why are you racing so?"

Already, Ferdinand is a few paces ahead. He disappears behind the corner of the building, looks around once more to assess that they are alone - and allows himself to slump against the wall, letting out a deep sigh of relief.

"Are you... alright?" The words feel foreign on his tongue, because this is Ferdinand and if he were not alright, he would make his issues known in a tone that was impossible to ignore. Besides, their relationship has never been such that they would talk about things profound or matters of the heart, fears that were gnawing at the conscious - Ferdinand von Aegir had always appeared fine and Hubert never cared enough to check if it was a facade.

He feels obligated to ask now, because something is so obviously amiss.

Ferdinand smiles, but it is strained. And when he speaks, Hubert can hear real anger simmering underneath. "Tell me, Hubert, would it have killed you and Edelgard to let me know that you were planning to _arrest_ my father?"

"And risk you warning him or openly stand in our way? I think not."

"Well, I would have prefered less drastic measures, I cannot lie. I've never seen eye to eye with him on his policies and I would gladly have advised you on how to manage his assets or where to find his most important documents before your people start raiding our estate-"

Hubert takes a step closer and Ferdinand falls quiet, but the angry spark in his eyes does not snuff out. _Good_. 

"And you can still do that. You may even step up to fill your father's position, if you can prove that you are best suited for the position. But the removal of your father was inevitable and if you do not like the means we chose, you can either leave, or keep your mouth shut and reserve your frustrations for the battlefield."

Ferdinand draws his mouth to a thin line. "Goddess, your blood really does run cold," he says and the barbs of his words sink deep under Hubert's skin. "How can you take all these cruel measures and not ever stop to wonder if it's right and _moral_ ? How can you stay so calm when you have started a _war_? Innocent people will die, Hubert, some of them who we used to call our friends. Have you even stopped to talk to the students that are gathered here? Most of them are terrified, because they do not know what tomorrow will bring, or because they have no idea what will happen to their families. Does this not weigh on your soul?"

"Have you ever considered that I have no soul," Hubert retorts, growing irritated.

"That's horseshit," Ferdinand says. "You care for Edelgard and you look after Bernadetta even though she is the least cut out for this. And you had my back so many times on the battlefield, taking out threats before I could even spot them. You are as human as any of us. I just wish you'd let it show more often."

"People suffer not only in times of war. The poor die every day, starving because the nobles hoard their riches, thinking themselves better on account of their crests and their titles. The world needs reforming, and no revolution was ever won without bloodshed. There will come a time when we can honor the sacrifice of those who have fallen for our cause, but what use is it to quiver over blood that has not been spilled yet? Why fear for the lives of your friends if you are still there to protect them?"

Ferdinand falls quiet. He crosses his arms and does not meet Hubert’s eyes. Sulking, for all that Hubert can tell. 

Ferdinand rubs his face. Taps his foot on the ground. The silence between them stretches uncomfortably as he grows more and more agitated. "And what if I fail to protect them?", he says at last.

He sits down on the cold ground and pulls his legs closer to his chest, making himself small. Hubert is at a loss for words. He has expected this lapse of confidence from other members of their class, but never from Ferdinand. Ferdinand, who will find compliments in mockery. When has he become so brittle?

"I cannot save all of them, at once. And the professor- she asked me to act as a dancer in the upcoming battle. A _dancer_! If one of us is in trouble, I might not even reach them in time."

Hubert reaches out before he remembers that even if he were the type who could bring others comfort, Ferdinand might not want his.

"Someone else will," he says, balling his hand to a fist. He considers, then sits down next to Ferdinand. Not so close that their limbs would brush against one another, but close enough to- to read the vulnerable expression on his classmate’s face. "The professor has always made unusual choices. Remember when she made me take the archery exam although I reassured her that I was lacking the strength for this class? In the end the training improved my aim, not only for slinging arrows, but for slinging spells."

"I reckon a proper haircut would have done the trick as well", Ferdinand mutters.

Hubert does not dignify this with a response. Instead, he says: "She came back to us from eternal darkness. She cut a rift between _worlds_. I'm not sure what she is, but I know that for all her power, she has chosen to continue teaching and guiding us. If she has faith in you, it is because she knows you will live up to the task. That reminds me -", Hubert adds with haste, as if to brush over the compliment he allowed to let slip. "I found something in our arsenal. I feel like you would benefit from it the most."

He holds out the staff, just as Ferdinand raises his head again (curiously, if not proud).

"It is an artifact that boosts the power of healing spells. It will give you more potency as a healer - if you want it, that is."

"I do!"

Ferdinand swallows. He turns to Hubert, coming onto his knees, and reaches for the staff as if it is something sacred. His fingers brush against Hubert's by incident, but Ferdinand does not flinch away. Hubert feels his pulse quicken.

Ferdinand seizes the hilt with both hands, the edge of his palm touching the tip of Hubert's thumb. The staff begins to glow in a soft, warm light, the wood seems to hum against the skin.

"Oh! Is this... supposed to happen?", he asks. 

Hubert finds himself short of breath. Warmth tickles his face, like sunlight in early autumn, kind but not imposing. He clears his throat.

"It seems that you activated it." There is nothing to heal, no injury that plagues him, big or small. He wonders if the staff might respond to its wielders desire to protect.

Ferdinand smiles in a giddy, helpless, _shy_ way that spills over his entire face. And something inside Hubert gives way; his chest feels too light and he is not sure if he should look away, not sure if he even can.

"Thank you, Hubert."

"There is no need for thanks. Just promise me you will use it wisely." 

Reluctantly, Hubert lets go off the staff, and its glow begins to fade. Ferdinand pulls it close to his chest. "I shall."

* * *

The days run through their hands like sand until the moment comes when they take their position on the battlefield. Ferdinand feels naked without his usual armor, without his trusty mare and without a spear in his hand. He has a throwing hatchet strapped to his thigh and his new staff is fastened to his hip, near the sheath of his sword.

His every step is accompanied by a chime, drawing the attention from every man and woman in their little army. Some stare, some snicker... and a few are positively leering. (Ferdinand thinks he can hear the words 'should've picked someone with bigger tits' and he hopes that his nerves are playing tricks on his ears.)

Lorentz rides past him, to share a knowing look, waving at one another one last time - they already shared their well-wishes earlier, when Ferdinand asked for assistance in putting on his ridiculously complicated garb.

"Remember to use your best asset!", Lorentz shouts, and then he turns his horse around to assume his position in the reinforcement squadron.

Ferdinand tries - and fails - to summon a smile.

"What was that about?" Dorothea takes her place next to him and playfully hooks her arm with his.

"Ah, well, it was just a joke. Earlier he said that if I find myself in a bind, I should grace our enemies with a glimpse of my thighs and strike them down once they are confused. Ridiculous, right?"

"Well, it's not the worst idea," she teases. "At least your legs would be distracting in a pleasant way."

Ferdinand blinks, because he is sure that Dorothea is _flirting with him_ , and because Lorentz said almost the same thing. 

(Lorentz, who had kneeled before him, and fastened the axe strap around Ferdinand's thigh with nimble hands, either unaware or purposefully ignoring the way Ferdinand's body responded to his touches. Which is not a memory Ferdinand likes to dwell on. Not now, maybe not ever.)

He wonders if it is the impending threat of losing one's life that makes them so susceptible to the pleasures it has to offer. But-

Ferdinand thinks back to the speech that Edelgard has given them, during their first meeting as the Black Eagles Strike Force. Both she and Hubert were unwavering, her poise and confidence unmatched. And Ferdinand has responded in kind, all his doubts well reigned in. But he wonders how they could be so sure about the success of their army.

Even Hubert, calculated and pragmatic to a fault had promised them a win like it was a good luck charm.

_Not only will we all survive this, but we will undoubtedly emerge victorious_ , were his words, and he better delivers, or else Ferdinand is going to, to-

He does not get to finish his fumbling thought, because a rumble goes through their ranks.

Up until now, their attention had been on the main gate, overseen by Seteth high on his wyvern and guarded by heavily armored forces. But two smaller squadrons have pushed forward, attempting to strike at the generals of the imperial army, which man the right and left flank.

Edelgard calls for action; she divides their Strike Force, sending Dorothea to the left to aid General Ladislava, while Ferdinand is ordered to General Randolph's side. He makes his way past the professor, who stands eerily still. Her attention is not on the soldiers, but on the walls of the monastery.

Hubert's voice calls out, but Ferdinand can't make out the words and he refuses to look back. Forward he must go, eyes on the enemy and on his allies besides him. He has to trust his friends that they are strong enough to hold their own, on the other side.

And then, just as he ducks behind a building, he spots Flayn.

_Flayn_. Who had been so happy to be taught under the professor, who takes pride in going to the market by her own - what kind of cruel commander would send a child like her to war? How could Seteth let this happen when her safety was all that mattered to him? Saints, he had not even allowed her to go near a boy, but had no qualms to let her risk her life in battle?

But before the flicker of anger in Ferdinand's chest can catch, it is consumed by the cold harsh reality that _they_ are going to be Flayn's demise. She is in their way and there are only a few church guards separating her from the sharp edge of general Randolph's axe. 

He cannot let that happen. Maybe, if he gets to her first, he can talk to her-

A cold hand seizes Ferdinand by the left arm.

He draws his sword, and turns, swinging the blade in a wide arch- and stops just as the cold steel kisses Hubert's pale neck.

"Careful where you point your toys," he says and tilts his head, almost as if he offered himself.

"Saints, Hubert, must you scare me like that. I could have killed you."

"I doubt that." He has the nerve to scoff. "Listen. Do not, under any circumstances engage with Flayn, focus only on supporting our troops. I will deal with her."

Hubert lets go of his arm as Ferdinand lowers his sword. Dread settles low in his stomach. "You can't be serious."

"I am far better equipped to take her down."

"Hubert, you cannot hurt her, she is just a child."

"Is she?", Hubert hisses. "Or is she an accomplished mage who will do whatever necessary to protect her stronghold? Look at her, Ferdinand. Does she look frightened? Uncertain? And how much time do you suppose we should waste on debating morality when our allies need our help now?"

He grits his teeth and lets out a shaky breath. "Promise me that you will spare her life."

"If she lets me."

There are many stories of old about heroic knights riding out, lance and armor glinting in the sun, to slay some vile and terrible beast. As Hubert steps past General Randolph, who trades hard axe blows with a church soldier, he wonders which role will fall to him once the scribes and historians put down the events of this very day. Even if they emerge victorious and succeed at reshaping the world, he does not think their judgment of him will be a kind one.

He has always had the makings of a villain: a sharp face and joyless smile, a sickly complexion, a startling gift for the darkest arts of magic. And, as he approaches Flayn, the contrast between them could not be harsher: the maiden clad in white, her green eyes and hair so luminous as if she had been touched by her goddess. She is ethereal; he is a shadow trying to consume her splendor.

Flayn summons blinding light to her hands that makes Hubert's eyes water. The magic that ripples off her small form feels old and overwhelming, yet familiar. It washes over him like a tide, making it hard to breathe. He has underestimated her; no, she is no child. Perhaps she is not even human.

Is she taunting him, unveiling her power like this? Is it a threat? All that Hubert knows is that someone less sensitive to magic would have marched toward her and perished. (Someone trusting and loyal and annoying. He could not let that happen, anymore than he could let harm come to his Lady.)

"I will not show you mercy!", Flayn shouts.

Hubert laughs. 

Mercy? No one had ever spared him a morsel of that. And it serves him just well, doesn't it, because his magic feeds on bitterness and grief. It does not matter to him how brightly her light shines, his darkness will swallow it. 

She calls upon the power of seraphims; a wave of light emits from her, rushing forward. Hubert casts his Dark Spikes. They pierce through the light and bury deep in her limbs.

Flayn shrieks in pain. She stumbles backwards- then Hubert's vision is taken by cold light as her spell hits, searing his skin and filling his chest with a pain like glowing embers. It takes him to his knees.

He needs a moment to collect himself, to learn how to breathe again. His heart feels strange. (And he does have a heart, despite what others may insist. It beats fervently now, like a panicked bird.) The battlefield is nothing but white noise around him. Hubert reaches for his javelin and puts the shaft hard on the ground; he uses the weapon as a crutch to pull himself up again.

Flayn lies on the ground, her body curled up like a crescent, her limbs trembling as if she is in a delirium. Step by exuberating step Hubert approaches until he reaches the stronghold. He lifts his javelin a few inches and pokes Flayn's paralyzed form with the lower tip.

She flinches and looks up at him with terror in her pale eyes, but to her credit, she does not beg.

"I would tell you to run, but it appears that your legs are lacking the strength," he says. "So unless you wish to die, I advise you to crawl out of my sight."

"Y-you-"

"Save your breath." Hubert says gruffly. He stares to the east, where he suspects their first wave of reinforcements to be hiding. With the first of the enemy commanders fallen and General Randolph clearing out the area, it is time to signal them. He lets a small purple flame flare up in his hand.

Flayn drags herself up, her eyes never waving from him. "You're a monster," she coughs.

"If I am the monster then what about your dear archbishop? What kind of creature does it make her?"

"I have known a taste of your vile magic, Hubert von Vestra. I know the color of your rotten soul." She graces him with one last glare that holds all of her loathing and all of her distaste, before she hobbles back to the monastery gates. And then there is an flash of light and she is gone - rescued by some bishop within the monastery walls, no doubt.

Hubert allows himself a moment to catch his breath and look over his shoulders, to look for his allies.

There is Randolph, wearily standing his ground as he disarms the last of his opponents. There are soldiers and battalions taking down old structures, forcing a way forward. There is Mercedes von Martritz, creeping towards the formation of Fortress Knights which block the road to the main entrance. She throws her body forward, unleashing a Bolganone spell on the nearest enemy, who goes down in a ring of fiery explosions. And then Ferdinand joins her. They look at each other; he rubs his neck and starts to dance. His motions are shy at first, before he finds his rhythm and then...

Time seems to stand still for the rest of the world as Ferdinand spins, his white and red garb swirling around him. He captures Mercedes for a short waltz, and as he holds her, guides her, she uses the momentum to hurl yet another spell at the nearest church soldier.

Another scream, another body collapsing at her feet.

Ferdinand and Mercedes freeze - and burst into a fit of giggles over the silly little victory they claimed.

Hubert finds himself smiling despite himself and despite the fact that they are in the middle of a bloodshed. But the two of them are... sweet. And Ferdinand looks brighter than he has in days, with his cheeks flushed and his copper hair ruffled from the wind and the fighting.

He is beautiful.

For the first time, Hubert thinks this without resentment, without drawing a comparison between himself and the other man. Ferdinand von Aegir is beautiful in the most vibrant and natural way, like the sun setting the foliage of autumn trees alight. Like harvest fires, like cardinal birds darting through the sky, like a carnelian stone.

If he had been a different man, a man free of duties, he could have dedicated himself to capturing this beauty in poetry.

A gale picks up. 

Hubert detects a blur of movement to his right, obscured by the sweep of black hair that falls into his face. He turns his head-

A wyvern swoops in low and all that Hubert can focus on is Seteth's anguished face and the way he thrusts his arm forward and then _pain_. Pain that sears through his side and throws him back, knocks the air out of his lungs. 

He sinks to his knees. Even as Hubert collapses, he extends one arm and summons another spell, magic that howls and tears at Seteth like a Banshee. He uses his other hand to clutch at his side, where he was wounded. His shirt and glove stain red with blood.

Every breath sends a new white-hot flare of pain through his body, twisting his insides. Groaning, Hubert lies down on the cool grass and presses his eyes shut.

The earth shakes as Seteth' wyvern lands. 

"Traitor!", Seteth snarls, his voice so close. "You will pay for what you've done and you will pay for hurting my- my sister."

_She lives, doesn't she?_ , Hubert wants to snap. His suffering is making him irritable and impatient, but he will not stoop so low to beg. Yet. He doesn't want to see the face of his killer, either. 

And then there is heat, and the stink of burning cloth. Hubert's eyes fly open, because Seteth is not a spellcaster - 

A lance falls into the grass, as Rhea's secretary pats out the flames on his armor in an awkward dance. Hubert spots Mercedes ducking into the shadow of a half-collapsed wall, but her dress is a pale stain in the darkness, still too visible. 

"Go ahead, chase her," Hubert taunts, "Turn your back on me, it will surely not cost you." 

He needs a last show of strength. He clenches his teeth, ignoring the metallic taste at the back of his throat and conjures a tight ball of miasma in his free hand. His vision starts to swim, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters beside keeping Seteth occupied a little longer.

An oblong orange glow in the distance might be the professor's sword, but if it is, she is too far to be of any help.

Somewhere, Bernadetta shouts an order. With a noise like a dozen of harp strings being plucked in synchronicity, a rain of arrows is released to the sky. They fly a high arch and bury into the wyvern's thick skin, bury into Seteth's hastily raised shield. One lucky arrow hits Seteth's leg and he howls. He grabs the shaft, breaks it off and hurries to pick up his lance.

Another soldier charges towards the Wyvern Lord in a flurry of white and red skirts. Seteth swings his weapon-

And Ferdinand leaps to the side and rolls over, grabbing for the hatchet that is strapped to his thigh. He assumes a half-crouched stance, lowering his center of gravity, better to put his body's weight.

A green aura starts to glow around him as his crest materializes in the air. Ferdinand swings his axe as if he meant to cleave his opponent in two and drives it into Seteth' back, right above his tailbone.

Seteth' legs give out; he falls forward, neither defeated nor dead, but incapacitated.

"He's all yours now, Bernadetta." Ferdinand pants. He stumbles a few steps back.

"Why me?", Bernadetta squeals from her hideout.

Ferdinand wipes his mouth, regarding the collapsed body before his with horror. And then his face turns, his eyes set on Hubert, and he sinks to his knees by Hubert's side, calling his name so loudly as if he meant to raise the dead.

He grasps the hand that is pressed tightly to Hubert's wound and Ferdinand's palm grows warm as he attempts to heal.

"Don't bother," Hubert coughs. "The wound is too deep. Save your strength for someone else."

"No. No, no, no, you _gave me your word_. You said we would all live to see our victory and a nobleman always stands by his word."

"Ferdinand," Hubert says softly. "Shut your mouth."

Ferdinand obliges, but he juts his chin forward as if he was preparing for one of his ridiculous challenges. His hand grows warmer still as he pours all of his stubbornness into a healing spell. The turmoil in Hubert's abdomen subsides just a little. It's not enough.

"I said _leave it be_. Why do you never listen? I am not worth the effort."

As a response, Ferdinand heals him again. And again, each pulse weaker than the last. He was neither made nor trained for this, but now that he set his mind to it, he will see it through, even if it is pointless. Even if he spends all his magical reserves on this fool's errand. It is just in his nature.

And Hubert is tired of arguing. Instead, he studies the set of Ferdinand's brows as they are furrowed in concentration, the angle of his jaw that looks like it has yet to grow a proper beard. He wants to run his thumb along the soft, sun-kissed skin just to make sure.

What a pointless and scandalous notion. And yet, what does he have to lose? It takes more and more effort to stay alert; not very long now and he will-

His arm feels leaden as he raises it. Hubert brushes his fingers against Ferdinand's temple with the same awe that a believer would dedicate to an icon, and then he runs them through soft orange locks.

Ferdinand tears his eyes away from the wound; his gaze meets Hubert's and his frustration is almost palpable.

"It's not your fault," Hubert says. And, after a pause: "I'm sorry that I was always so... difficult towards you."

Then a shock runs through Huberts body. His muscles tense; he can feel his insides move as tissue is being knit back together with hurried force. His wound spits out half congealed blood before it closes up and grows new, tender skin.

"Hubert?" Ferdinand grabs his shoulders with a twinge of panic.

His blood runs cold, his heart stutters as magic tests his every organ its wholeness. Next, it seizes his lungs, wraps around them like a giant's fist. Hubert gasps for air as if he has never breathed again. He rolls to his side, away from Ferdinand, and throws up the remains of his dinner.

"Apologies," Mercedes' airy voice cuts in. "It's always quite unpleasant to heal someone who is that far gone."

The professor's hand rests on her shoulder. "Well done."

Byleth steps over Seteth unconscious form without sparing him a glance. She heads for Ferdinand and Hubert, who still lies half-curled up in the grass. Her eyes have never seemed so terrifying as they are now, filled with this pale green glow. 

"We still need you. It is far from over."

The gates of Garrech Mach open and release a new terror: statues come to live, raining down bolts of light on their troops.

"I'm not sure I can stand, professor," Hubert says. To his surprise, Ferdinand squeezes his hand. 

"You can lean on me. We'll get through this together."

A stubbornly hopeful sentiment and if it had been uttered by anybody else, Hubert would have laughed. But Ferdinand is... well, Ferdinand. Undeterred. He takes Hubert’s arm and guides it around his neck.

Ferdinand’s nape is warm and sticky with sweat; his curls tickle Hubert’s cold skin. 

"I see that you have regained your annoying optimism," Hubert remarks dryly. He is overcome with the damnedest desire to rest his forehead against Ferdinand’s neck. They are closer than they have ever been, and likely never will be again, should they live to see the day.

"Come on, friend. Let’s go kill some statues."

_Friend_.

Hubert does not have the time to dwell on the sensation that blooms in his chest. Ferdinand pulls and he lets himself be dragged to his feet. Hubert sways, before he finds his balance again. A strong hand settles against his side, steadying him.

Clumsily, they march. 

To take down giants. To carve a path towards a brighter future.


	2. Can’t Pray This Type of Pain Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! The title of this chapter is from Hayley Kiyoko's 'Demons', a song that is about mental illness. This chapter also focuses more on mental health and Ferdinand coming to terms with being gay. This year has been a tough one for me, so in many ways, this part is a way of venting, too - it features panic attacks, self-deprecation and mental anguish, so if you are not in a good place to read about this rn, you might want to wait.

_You're not as brave as you were at the start_ _  
_ _Rate yourself and rake yourself, take all the courage you have left_ _  
_ _Waste it on fixing all the problems_ _  
_ _That you made in your own head_

Mumford and Sons, “Little Lion Man”

* * *

They each find their own ways to cope with the onset of war and the friend and teacher it took from them. Edelgard grows distant, cold, focused. She retreats to the monastery's council room more often than not and Hubert takes a step out of the shadows - roaming the grounds, becoming her eyes and hands, sometimes her voice. He pays attention that she eats, he helps hide her struggles from the concerned eyes of their friends and allies.

Linhard sleeps, and studies, and sits at the pond to fish, sometimes for hours, until his butt goes numb and his shoulders ache. He is a steady constant among the fear and the uncertainty. And when he cannot be found doing what he has always done, he will be busy patching up Caspar, who gets into fights more frequently and who throws himself into training with an unparalleled effort. There is not a day when he does not go to bed with bloodied knuckles.

Petra spends most of her time hunting with Shamir and roaming nearby markets to trade game for money, for spices and on a very lucky occasion, a new dictionary.

But the biggest change works in Bernadetta. The first few weeks after the battle of Garrech Mach she feels no longer safe in her room and so she can be seen, more drifting than walking the entire length of the monastery, looking for a new sanctuary. Like a cat, she starts falling asleep in the strangest places: in the green house, between the pews of the church, next to the kitchen hearth. One of the Black Eagles always finds her. More often than not it is Hubert who will carry her to her room.

The Professor's room stays empty, mostly untouched, if not for a weekly cleaning. It compels the eye, a fresh ache that makes itself known. Edelgard is the only one that goes in, from time to time, to reminisce. To mourn. There is little to hold on to, for the professor did not have many personal belongings. Edelgard does not wail or sob, and if her grief ever spills in tears, it does so quietly, without witnesses.

And then there is Dorothea, and Ferdinand, who find comfort in each other's company. They share long, too honest conversations as they sit by the lake, and frail laughter that feels like a sacrilege. Dorothea is bitter and angry and disillusioned and Ferdinand wants to do anything, everything, to make her happier. Because for all the friends they lost on the battlefield, Dorothea is still someone he can save and protect.

An attempt at courtship is made: on quiet afternoons he takes her out on horseback to watch the sunsets. Plucks wild flowers to put in her beautiful hair. He takes her hand and raises it to his lips in a gesture of devotion. She gifts him a bittersweet smile. The whole dance of wooing her is perfectly noble and cordial - but Dorothea wants something less restrained. She wants sweet, distracting passion, kisses that make her feel alive again.

One night, a few months later, they have a light dinner at the rooftop garden. Crackers and morsels of cheese, a few sweet tea cakes that Dorothea purchased from a traveling merchant. They feed each other, and she makes a game of it, trying to snatch the sweets away before he can bite down. Dorothea kisses the crumbs off the corner of Ferdinand’s mouth. And then she puts a hand on the side of his cheek and kisses him in earnest. Her lips taste like sugar plums and the beeswax of her lipstick. Ferdinand puts an arm around her waist and holds her like something fragile-

But Dorothea is not fragile. She is a woman who has suffered far too long, a woman unafraid to take what she wants because of it. She clucks her tongue at his chaste embrace and straddles his lap. Guides his hands where she wants them, over the soft and heavy curves that strain her dress. 

A noise catches in his throat. 

She bows down to meet his lips. Ferdinand's kisses are hesitant, unexperienced, and it's cute, in a way. 

"Now, Ferdie, don't be shy," she teases. "I'm not a frail little flower; I won't crush if you squeeze me a little harder." With a giggle, Dorothea slips his new tie off his neck and uses it to put up her hair. She pulls down her dress to reveal her shoulders and breasts. She shows him where to pinch her-

Still, his lance does not rise to the occasion. His brows are furrowed in concentration.

So she pulls him close, chest to chest, forehead to forehead. She teases his lips with the tip of her tongue and Ferdinand _yelps_ , like a frightened dog.

"Wait!", he shouts, a little too loud. His hands seize her hips.

"I can't-, I mean, we can't- It wouldn't be right. Not before marriage." 

For a moment, Dorothea is speechless. Then she coughs up a single bout of laughter, nervous, but nowhere near as anxious as the look on his face. "Ferdie, you know that there are ways to enjoy ourselves that are not, ah, _compromising_ for me, right?"

"Oh," he says. His hands all but flinch away. "I'm sorry, I have never- well. I haven't ever done this with anyone."

Dorothea can tell. She thinks of the days when the monastery was still filled with pretty girls - students and young knights in training alike - and she remembers many a pair of eyes clinging to Ferdinand as he walked by in all his noble splendor. But his attention had always been devoted to competing with Edelgard and sometimes to her, Dorothea. And oh, how she had enjoyed being the only woman to hold his admiration.

But that was all it was, wasn't it? He still looked at her like she was a nymph from a fairy tale, not a person of flesh and blood, not someone to desire. Slowly, she pulls up the front of her dress again. "You don't want this," she says. It's not a question. "And you don't really want me, either."

"Dorothea, I-" He reaches out for her, but before his fingers can touch her cheek, he clenches them to a fist. "I'm so sorry. You're beautiful, you're the most beautiful woman I have ever known. I don't know why it's not- not _right_."

"I do," she says, even though she is only beginning to piece it all together. The almost desperate way with which he clung to his ideals of nobility, the compulsory need to always put in his best effort as if he was trying to make up for something. The way he had just accepted arranged marriage as part of his life, the way he kept to himself sometimes even though he so flourished in company- 

He has never chased another girl but her, but his eyes had often strayed to the other cavaliers. 

She leans over and places a kiss on his forehead. "It's okay."

If she was right, it would be hard for him.

The doors to the rooftop garden swing open and light spills over them, blinding Dorothea. She turns her face away and feels Ferdinand's body wrap around her, shielding her from view.

"My... apologies."

"Hubert!", Ferdinand calls out, sounding equal parts offended and mortified. "It is the middle of the night."

"I am aware. I do not suppose either of you has seen Bernadetta today?"

That catches Dorothea's attention. She raises her head and blinks. Hubert is but a black shadow in a softly lit hallway, strangely bent over. "You haven't found her yet?"

"Have you checked the greenhouse?", Ferdinand chimes in. 

"Of course I have checked the greenhouse."

"And the stables? You _never_ check the stables." He makes a grab for his coat and drapes it around Dorothea's shoulders.

Hubert snorts. "How negligent of me, not to bother looking for a terrified girl in a place where terrifying animals are kept."

"Horses are one of the few things she is not afraid of! Honestly, Hubert-"

Dorothea stands. She pulls down the hem of her skirt that has been riding up her thighs. Neither of the men notices over their quabble. In fact, Ferdinand barely seems to register the loss of her weight.

"You should go look for her," Dorothea softly says. Ferdinand's head whips around. He tries to protest, but he lacks the words. Or the motivation to stay.

"Go help Hubie. I'll be fine. She's my friend, too; I'd rather see her safe."

Ferdinand rises to his feet. Pulls his coat tighter around her and leans in to place the lightest of kisses on her cheeks. "I'm sorry," he whispers; his voice trembles under the strain of all the things he wants to do better, but can't. And then he leaves her to the mess.

Hubert still lingers, for a moment, looking more like a spooked cat than his usual devious self.

Dorothea stoops down to pick up the abandoned glasses. Her hair slips from the sloppy knot and falls back over her shoulders. Ferdinand's tie falls to her feet and- it's all a little bit too much, suddenly. "If you have something to say, say it," she snaps.

"I... apologize for interrupting your evening."

"There wasn't much to interrupt," Dorothea replies. She wishes that he would just go, like he meant to.

"Can I at least escort you safely to your room?"

"My, my, Hubie, when did you get so thoughtful?" She wants to laugh at the irony. For Ferdinand to commit such a breach of etiquette and for Hubert to pick it up - the world was turning upside down. "Thank you, but no thank you. I would rather be alone right now."

"As you wish." He bides his goodbyes with a half-bow before turning on his heel and following Ferdinand.

Men! Dorothea shakes her head. She uncorks the bottle of wine that she had saved for this very occasion and puts it to her lips. Without a noble suitor, there is no need for her to act so refined anymore. A small mercy. 

She sets to cleaning up.

Ferdinand crosses the monastery grounds with large, hurried strides. He feels already out of breath for reasons that have nothing to do with his constitution. He wants to run - or better yet, to take his mare and ride out into the night, let the fresh air cool his heated cheeks. But he is a man of his word and he will not give into diversions until he has found Bernadetta.

The horses are quiet until the moment he enters. They pick up on his distress and paw the ground. He tries for soothing words as he checks each compartment and finds nothing but hay and droppings. His chest grows tight.

This is all wrong.

Edelgard was meant to lead them to a new, a brighter future. They should have taken Garrech Mach with their heads held up high and then move on, instead of holing up in it, tending to their ghosts and their grief like flowers in a garden. Flowers that threaten to overtake and suffocate them.

And now they live from battle to battle and they all look the same, their enemies, their battalion soldiers. Too young faces twisted in pain and horror, eyes turning glassy in death. Blood stains the fields like summer rain and he wonders what it will do to the crops. Wonders how long the new recruits will survive - one moon, perhaps two? - before their names are wiped from history too.

It is not that he doesn't believe in their cause. But it feels to him as if their progress is too meager to justify the sacrifices they make. At the very least, they should have set their base somewhere less within throwing distance of both Faerghus and the Alliance - maybe then Bernadetta would feel safe enough to sleep at night. 

(Can it truly be sentimentality and foolish hope that keeps Edelgard here?)

If only he could turn back the hands of time, back to when things were a little clearer. 

Ferdinand paces, rubbing his hand across his mouth as he tries to think where his friend could be. It would be wise to confer with Hubert, to rule out all the places that have already been searched-

Considering this, where _is_ Hubert? He was meant to follow.

Ferdinand is hit by a sudden spell of dizziness, not the first he has had in the last months. He leans against the stable wall and closes his eyes, waiting for the vertigo to pass. And with each deep breath he takes, his chest seems to grow tighter. His skin breaks in cold sweat.

Saints... not again.

At least he is alone, with no one to witness him in this sorry state. He has had... strange episodes of late. Aches or a feeling of tightness in the chest, nausea, an impending sense of horror that creeps over him at the most inopportune times. Sometimes he grows hot, other times he starts to shudder with cold even as he walks in the sun. He sleeps poorly, haunted by one memory in particular and he will wake twice or thrice a night, drenched in sweat.

Ferdinand has not shared any of this with Manuela. As per his last examination, there is nothing physically wrong with him, so it is either magic or... poison. It is just his luck that the man best suited to figure out the cause is the last person Ferdinand wants to confide in. He has no desire to declare himself mysteriously ill to Hubert, who feels so very strongly about... _liabilities_.

He is still lightheaded when he steps out of the stables.

Outside, Hubert is waiting for him, arms crossed in front of his chest, the very image of disgruntled judgment. "You took your time. Or are the stables perhaps bigger than I remember them?"

"I.... took a moment to look after the horses, as well," Ferdinand lies. Hubert's eyes narrow and Ferdinand is grateful for the late hour and the darkness it brings. "Anyway, Bernadetta is not here. Perhaps by the pegasus pens..."

"We cannot go in there."

"Oh, but we can!" Ferdinand shows a too bright, fickle smile. "And we should! Sure, the pegasi are not going to appreciate our presence, but they are less prone to kicking than their earthbound cousins. In stressful situations, they opt for flight, not fight. As long as we are not so foolish to attempt mounting them, we should be fine."

Hubert mutters something under his breath that sounds like _why does anyone bother, then_?

Ferdinand pushes the door to the stables open. "Pegasi tend to shy from men because they consider us a threat. You see, historically, it was predominantly men being sent to battle, waging wars and invading their territory, capturing them for breeding- and it appears that pegasi can hold quite a grudge. That is the reason why they rarely allow for male riders."

"They also have a keen smell, don't they?"

Ferdinand treads carefully. He is faintly aware of Hubert looming behind his back, close enough that Ferdinand can feel the heat of the lantern warm his skin and his clothes. There is no need to move so crowded; the stable's hallway offers space enough for comfortable distances. Unless...

"You are not afraid of them, are you?", Ferdinand asks, a little too sincere to be teasing.

"Hardly," Hubert remarks dryly. 

Ferdinand glimpses over his shoulder.... and catches Hubert running his gloved fingertips over the wood of a stable door, peering into the compartment. His gaze has lost its sharp focus, his features have smoothed.

Without all that glaring, he looks almost ordinary. 

"I was wondering if they can smell the blood on my hands," Hubert says low under his breath.

Ferdinand is not sure if he was meant to hear, or if his input will be welcome, but he wonders about where Hubert might have picked up this notion. After all, his work - cruel as it may be - rarely leaves him stained with blood. Ferdinand reckons that if one of them was stinking of it, it would be him. Not that it matters. For some reason, pegasi are wholly undeterred by the stench of blood, which made them the most reliable mount for the battlefield.

Hubert takes a deep breath. "I always...", he says, and hesitates. But whatever he intended to say is lost when a noise quite like the pop of a joint disturbs the silence. Hubert's eyes narrow and he lifts the lantern higher.

"Who goes there?"

A rustling of hay, a telltale swishing of fabric. 

Mercedes steps into the light. Her long skirts are wrinkled and a piece of hay sticks from her pale blond hair - in short, she looks as if she had taken a tumble. "Apologies," she chirps. "I meant to announce my presence, but I didn't want to wake Bernie."

Ferdinand seizes her by the shoulders before she can finish the sentence. "She is here?"

"She's in the last stable to the right. But, please don't wake her. She needs the rest."

It takes all of his restraint not to break into a sprint; Ferdinand picks an urged pace instead. The circle of light follows him, Hubert and Mercedes with it. He pulls open the stable door with unnecessary force.

Bernadetta sleeps with her back propped against the wall, a blanket around her small form, a kindness granted by Mercedes. Her head has drooped to her shoulder, her hair is more tousled than ever. She looks troubled, even in slumber. The brows tightly knitted, her mouth half parted and occasionally mumbling a word, a syllable. 

Ferdinand kneels in front of his friend and brushes some of the hair out of her forehead. He wonders, not for the first time, if there had not been a way to spare her from war. All she ever wanted was to make friends and sew and learn about strange plants...

"I'm sure you could have touched her," Mercedes prompts suddenly, in a most conversational tone. Ferdinand looks over his shoulder, flabberghasted - but Mercedes is leaning towards Hubert, hands crossed behind her back. Hubert goes dangerously stiff; he turns his head towards her slowly and when he speaks, he carves his words with a sharp edge.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The pegasus. You looked like you wanted to pet her. I think she might let you, if you're nice about it. And it's not true what the people say, they cannot actually look into a person's soul."

" _Is that so?_ " Hubert's nostrils flare. The fingers of his free hand twitch, as if he means to cast a spell. "Well, thank you for the entirely unnecessary encouragement and the false assumptions made on my behalf. I could not care less for these creatures."

"Oh," Mercedes says.

Ferdinand does not know with whom he would least likely want to switch. Hubert is tense, glowering like a demonic beast, but his anger is something familiar, and Ferdinand has been on the receiving end of his intimidations often enough to not feel their teeth anymore. Meanwhile, Mercedes' watery gray eyes seem to look right through a person. She has the uncanny ability find those who are in need of support or guidance and unlike Hubert, she has no network of spies to achieve this feat. Ferdinand does not know if it is empathy or observational skills, but either way she must know that right now, she has poked a proverbial hornet's nest - yet she does not shrink from Hubert.

Ferdinand shakes his head. He slips an arm underneath the bend of Bernadetta's knees and another behind her back. 

Her eyelids flutter.

"Mn," she says, blinking lazily - and then she tears her eyes open and starts. A high-pitched squeal escapes her throat, growing louder, shriller-

"Bernadetta, it's me, Ferdinand."

The noise stops. She draws in her breath with an audible hiss. "Are we under attack? Are we marching out? Did I miss a strategic meeting?"

"No, not at all," Ferdinand says softly. "But it is getting late. We could not find you."

She looks past him, taking in the rest of her surroundings. Her purple eyes grow wider still. "H-hubert?"

"Next time if you intend to disappear, you would do well to leave a note as to where you intend to hide away. Some of us have duties to tend to." He hisses.

"I'm sorry," Bernadetta whimpers and Ferdinand pulls her against his chest, trapping her in an embrace. She instantly buries her face against his shoulder.

"Well, we found you. That is all that matters," Ferdinand says with all the kindness that Hubert forgot to show, while shooting the other man a disapproving look. _That was wholly unnecessary,_ he wants to say. "Now, I think we can all use a little rest."

Hubert's frown deepens and his mouth grows thinner - every inch of him speaks of irritation. He takes a step back and raises his arm with a mocking little flourish, beckoning Ferdinand to go ahead.

"He's angry with me, isn't he?"

The barest of whispers tickles Ferdinand's collarbone. They walk side by side, Bernadetta leaning into him while Ferdinand has put his arm around her shoulders. Hubert walks some paces ahead of them, lighting the way.

"I doubt it," Ferdinand replies, almost as quiet. "He may be in a horrible mood, but you are not the reason."

"But- He's had to look for me, again. Why can't he leave me alone, why does he bother coming for me?"

"Because if he left you asleep somewhere on the monastery grounds, you would fall ill. And then all of us would worry about you."

"I knew it," Bernadetta says, and sniffles. "I'm a nuisance! Useless! _Stupid_!"

"Bernadetta, no, that is not what I meant at all!", he hurries to say. "We _care_ about you. And if you hide, how will we know that you are safe?"

She stifles a sob. "No one is safe. We're at war."

It is hard to argue with that, so Ferdinand squeezes her tight for a moment and presses a kiss on the crown of her head. "I will protect you. And one day, the war will be over and you will be here, and you are going to be free to do whatever your heart desires. You are stronger and more skilled than you give yourself credit for."

Bernadetta's room is cold. Stuffed animals rest on the shelves, half toppled over and never rightened again. Rolls of fabric pile on her desk, a basket of mending stands by the door; Ferdinand nearly steps into it.

For the first time, she looks lost and out of place here. And frail. Her shoulders drawn, her arms crossed in front of her stomach as if she was hugging herself. Despite Ferdinand's assurances, he cannot help but wonder if she will be alright, if he should stay and hold her hand until she falls asleep. She is dear to him, like a little sister.

To think that there had been a time in his life when she had been but a stranger, and one that his father had intended for him to marry! They would have made a bad pair. When he met her, he had little patience for her. Now... he likes to believe that he has gained some skill at listening to people and their sorrows. Which makes him an agreeable friend, with room for improvement.

He is not the only one.

"I could put a few wards on your room, if it makes you feel safer," Hubert speaks up. "Have guards positioned outside. Or, I could-"

"Stay?", Bernadetta suggests, quiet as a mouse.

Hubert falls silent. His hesitation stretches a little too long and her hands fly up immediately. "I mean you don't have to! Of course you're far too busy and I already took so much of your time, so just forget I ever said anything at all."

Hubert takes a step closer and Bernadetta shrinks under his scrutiny.

"I will wait outside the door until you have prepared for bed. Call on me once you are ready." He turns on his heel before Bernadetta has a chance to take back her request.

"I should take my leave," Ferdinand says, smiling to hide the envy that gnaws on his heart because she has chosen _Hubert_ over him. Hubert! It stings worse as the rejection he has faced (the rejection he has _caused_ ) earlier. 

He curtseys, and walks away, feeling useless.

* * *

The seasons turn. A hot and irritable summer mellows into bright fall and as the Horsebow Moon draws near - and Dorothea's birthday with it - Ferdinand still ponders how to mend their ruffled relationship. They still speak to each other, in passing and on the battlefield, but she much favors Bernadetta's and Petra's company these days. Some nights, she will even sleep in Bernadetta's room, to soothe her troubled mind. (Bernadetta's favorite sleeping companion remains Mercedes, however.)

During his own sleepless nights, Ferdinand takes up baking again.

If he first won Dorothea over with sweet confections, maybe the sugar can work its magic one more time. Ferdinand thinks that puff pastries, filled with tart apple compote or apricot jam might just do the trick. 

It is by sheer luck that Ferdinand gets his hands on some marzipan as well, the rarest of commodities, especially in war times. The price is a quite rare thing too, guaranteed to discourage each and any customer who is not perversely rich. Ferdinand, who has been granted a sum that represents five percent of his father's funds, qualifies as such. Marzipan also happens to be a key ingredient in a cookie known as ox eye.

On the eighteenth day of Horsebow Moon, Ferdinand decides to not wait for his nightmares to wake him and instead spends the night in the kitchen right away. Lysithea keeps him company, drawn to sweet delights as a butterfly is drawn to nectar. Her opinion as a taste tester is highly regarded.

Ferdinand wears plainer clothes: beige breeches, and a crisp white shirt under a beige vest. A kitchen apron of a similar light color, so as not to stain his clothes with redcurrant jelly. He gathers all the ingredients and rolls up his sleeves, while Lysithea fires up the oven - it will take some time for the stones to take up the heat.

"Say, Lysithea, could I trouble you for-" Ferdinand starts, and before he can finish the sentence, she hands him a purple headscarf. "You have my thanks."

"One of these days you need to get your hair cut," she remarks as Ferdinand ties the scarf, "or buy your own."

His hair has grown beyond chin length, almost sweeping his shoulders - long enough to curl and tickle his neck. Rather distracting, but he likes the look of it. "I will consider it. How do I look?"

Ferdinand places both of his hands firmly on his hips and beams at her. He knows how the purple clashes with his orange hair and Lysithea giggles and snorts and calls him a burly Adrestian matron.

"I shall take this as a compliment."

"Please don't!"

Satisfied, he begins to prepare the first dough by pouring cups of flour on the work table, shaping something like a volcano. He adds flakes of butter, then salt and sugar, and finally an egg before combining all. Whisking slowly first, then faster, then kneading the dense mass that starts to form as he incorporates more and more flour. Once that is done, he sets the dough aside and refines the raw marzipan with powdered sugar, some brandy and an egg white.

Ferdinand dusts the work table lightly with flour, and places the ball of dough in the middle. He is about to fetch a rolling pin, when he hears the doors of the dining room creak.

There is a little dense ball of miasma shaping in Lysithea's hands and Ferdinand raises the rolling pin like an axe before remembering that they are in a _kitchen_ , which has lots of weapons to offer. He puts the pin down and grabs for the sharpest and biggest knife he can spot. They look at each other, nod - and creep carefully towards the exit to the dining area.

They have yet to have their first visit from an assassin or enemy scout - Garrech Mach is secured by guards and some intricate magical wards and Hubert's spies have sowed rumors that Edelgard resides hidden in Enbarr - but it cannot hurt to be prepared. Worst case scenario, they spook Caspar on his hunt for a midnight snack.

"Hello?" Mercedes's voice carries through the empty hall, light as a summer breeze, followed by Bernadetta's meek one. "Anyone here?"

Ferdinand sighs and puts the knife aside, Lysithea extinguishes her magic. He steps into the doorway and waves. 

Mercedes is dressed in her nightgown, a morning robe pulled hastily around her body. Judging by the tousled state of her chin-length bob, she has just been dragged out of bed. Judging by the way Bernadetta clings to her wrist, Ferdinand can tell by whom.

Bernadetta lets go as soon as she sees him; she squeaks, and breaks into a sprint, throwing her small body against him.

"Ouf," says Ferdinand. She is stronger than she looks: her embrace squeezes the air out of his lungs. He pats her head absently. "What's the matter?"

Bernadetta shakes her head and buries her face further against Ferdinand's apron. He looks at Mercedes, eyes pleading for help.

"She had a nightmare again. We went to look for you, but your room was empty."

"Well, you found me-" Ferdinand says, laughs, and chokes on his laughter as Bernadetta hugs him even tighter.

"Don't go."

"I had no intention of going anywhere! I have a whole batch of cookies to prepare. Would you do me the honor of joining me? Lysithea is also helping, although in her case help is defined by snagging as much sweets as she can. Someone ought to keep an eye on her."

Mercedes claps her hands together. "Oh, yes, let's! I love cookies. Bernie, you don't mind if we stay awhile, do you?"

Not only does Bernadetta not mind - she can barely be convinced to let go of Ferdinand, even as they go back into the kitchen. 

The oven is radiating a steady, pleasant heat now. Ferdinand starts rolling out the dough and it does not take long until his face is covered in a fine sheen of perspiration.

"Do you want to talk about it?", he asks, as incidentally as possible. "The nightmares, I mean."

Bernadetta wipes the corner of her eye with her sleeve. The lilac fabric of the nightgown already has a fair share of khol stains, although it would be highly ignoble to point this out. "It's silly."

 _Up, up, up_ , the rolling pin spreads the dough, then to the sides. Ferdinand brushes a flour-dry hand over the surface to test its evenness. "Splendid! That means, it's not going to be so scary once you share them."

"I- I saw you dying."

His hand stills. "Oh."

"We were on the battlefield, just outside of Garrech Mach. And the Golems- They hit you and then they hit Hubert and I woke up thinking I smelled blood and I wasn't sure what was what anymore."

Mercedes puts an arm around Bernadetta, squeezing her shoulder. She is a blessing in these dreary days; a pillar of certainty.

"Come on, Bernie," Ferdinand says softly. "You know it takes some sterner stuff to take me out."

Bernadetta sobs, and presses her palms against her eyes. "I _know_ ! Stupid, isn't it? It's been months and I still keep dreaming about it. And I keep dreaming about the professor- and about Seteth and this _monster_."

Ferdinand feels a twinge of the old panic twist his gut at the mentioning of Seteth' name. There have been rumors about sightings. Which is impossible - Ferdinand still remembers the way his axe went into the man's back, the shock of the impact humming through his fingers. Even if Seteth had survived the blow, he would never walk again, much less sit astride a wyvern back.

"You are not stupid. I... dream about it too. On occasion." 

He had relived parts of the battle so often that he could remember in perfect clarity the poise of Seteth' arm as he prepared to impale Hubert on the blood-slick grass. Some nights, Ferdinand dreams of how the strike would have met its horrible conclusion.

"We're all here now, Bernie. And I promise-" and oh, how he trips over his tongue remembering that a noble always stands by his word. "-By my honor as a noble, I will do everything within my power to protect you, and Hubert, and all of our friends."

He claps his hands together, releasing a small cloud of dust. "Now, shall we start cutting some cookies?"

The conversation moves on to lighter topics, after they girls have found a tin goblet each to press into the dough, cutting nice even round shapes, which they then place onto a greased and flour-dusted metal tray. Meanwhile, Ferdinand stuffs the marzipan mixture into a small, empty canvas bag. Once that is done, he twists up the open side and pries a hole in one of the corners of the bag, just big enough to release some of the sugary paste.

He bows over the tray and draws a rim of marzipan on every cookie, while the girls intently discuss the handsomeness of the new recruits. That is, Mercedes and Lysithea do most of the discussing, and Bernadetta turns a nice shade of beet red, praying silently that no one asks her for her opinion.

"-and I must say, he has rather nice arms, doesn't he?" Mercedes giggles. "He used to work on his parent's farm."

Lysithea makes a pensive noise, as she gives the marzipan a longing, side-eyed look. "Isaiah? He is nice to talk to, but... not exactly a scholar, if you know what I mean. I think we can do better. Besides... Lorenz has already taken quite a shine on him."

Ferdinand's heartbeat stutters for just a moment. Surely they cannot be implying... no. Impossible. Even if Lorenz were so inclined, this is not a matter that people talked about or hinted at.

"So? Lorenz always takes a shine on someone, and then he never acts on it. All he ever does is pine-"

(Ferdinand remembers the way Lorenz' long, slender fingers have brushed over his skin as he brushed the circlet over Ferdinand's biceps, the final touch to complete his dancer's outfit. The admiring smile, the breathless 'you are beautiful' that has set his cheeks on fire.)

"-and write sad poetry about it. I know," Lysithea finishes. "But you don't know how he gets when he's heartbroken. And then he comes to me because I'm the only one of his old classmates left. So please, Mercie, I'm begging you, pick another boy. I can't do this again, not right after Dorothea-"

Ferdinand's head whipped up. "Lorenz fancies Dorothea?"

"Um." Lysithea draws up her shoulder, looking as if he caught her stealing from the pantry. She exchanges a look with Mercedes that carries far too much meaning.

"That's right!", Bernadetta squeals, her voice humming with panic. "He asked her out for dinner, and she declined, and then she started going out with you, and, and, _hegotoverit_." The last part was uttered in a single breath. "So that's history! Done! And we don't need to talk about it ever again."

To Ferdinand it sounds quite as if the matter is far from resolved, and he wonders... he wonders why Lorenz never breathed a word of this to him. They are friends, after all. And Ferdinand has always been open about how much he admired Dorothea.

"Talking about Dorothea...", Lysithea says and Ferdinand can feel how all of the girl's attention shifts towards him. They stare at him expectantly, united in a subtle sense of disapproval. Ferdinand realizes that he is utterly doomed.

"What did you do to upset her so?", Lysithea finishes.

"Now, hold on. She broke- _she decided_ she wanted a break. I have not done anything uncouth."

"Well, you wouldn't," Mercedes pipes up. "At least not intentionally. Which is why we were so confused."

"But Dorothea was really sad," Bernadetta adds, barely looking up from the veil of her bangs. "You're gonna apologize to her, right? You'll fix things between the two of you?"

"Oh! Are the cookies part of some grand plan to win her back?", Mercedes asks, clutching a hand to her chest.

"Um," Ferdinand says, eloquently.

Lysithea says: "I thought they were for Edelgard to cheer her up."

"But...", Bernadetta cuts in, "We're making ox eyes, right?" Her dark eyes turn to Ferdinand for confirmation. "I assumed they are for Hubert. They're his favorites, after all."

"HUBERT?", Lysithea shouts, and lets out a loud, cackling laugh. "Mr. Grim and Grouchy likes sweets?"

"They are for Hubert and Edelgard both," Ferdinand says, loosening the top bottom of his collar and refusing to meet any of the curious female stares he receives. Saints, this kitchen is far too hot. "But I will prepare something for Dorthea's birthday, soon enough. Now, do you mind? These cookies are not going to fill with jam on their own."

* * *

He meets with Lorenz over tea, the very next day, as a single question bears heavy in his mind. But when he poses it, Lorenz throws his head back and laughs, loud enough to startle a duo of cats that slumber nearby. They flick their ears and look at him, offended.

"Me and Dorothea? Oh dear, perish the thought. No, I am afraid she is not - how would Sylvain say? - _My type_."

"Oh," Ferdinand deflates. Lysithea's information had sounded sincere, although... it was Bernadetta who completed the sentence. Ferdinand had not given much weight to how nervous she sounded because nervous was, sadly, Bernadetta's most common state of mind. Could she have tried to deflect from the truth?

"Ferdinand, there is something that I meant to tell you for a while now." Lorenz puts his cup back on the chaucer with a _clink_. He runs his index finger over the porcelain rim, and takes a breath. "I just... seem to never find the right words, or the courage."

"You? Lacking courage? I find that hard to imagine."

"You flatter me!" Lorenz runs a hand through his hair and crosses his legs. "But as you know, I have spent my days at Garrech Mach not only honing my skills, but searching for a bride as well. And in the process, I have met for lunch with quite a lot of lovely young noblewomen. I would like to believe that I have become quite well versed in this, yet... there was not a single woman that could meet my standards."

"You will find your bride one day, I am sure of it", Ferdinand says. "Although, perhaps you might want to reevaluate your standards. I'm not saying you ought to change them, but consider how much every aspect should weigh in." Lorenz has recited the list to him, many moons ago. He is looking for a woman of noble birth and gentle, but sensible disposition. A beauty who carries herself with grace, who is well-versed in the arts of dancing, singing, who plays at least one instrument and speaks two languages, and is further skilled in a craft like embroidery or weaving. An inclination for magic or a minor crest would have been a benefit as well.

Naturally, such a woman did not exist. 

Lorenz rubs over his arm and laughs. "Why, you are absolutely right. It's a shame you have not given me this advice last year, it would have saved me a lot of disappointing lunches. In the end I figured out that I had neglected one relevant factor altogether. Namely, attraction."

"Is that so?", Ferdinand asks, encouraging his friend to continue with no small amount of confusion. After all, if Lorenz is free to choose a bride of his own instead of bowing to an arranged marriage, attraction should be the one criteria already implied.

"It was not until the sauna became available that I was confronted with this fact. I caught sight of someone, and - I suppose it will suffice to say that sometimes the heart and the body will yearn for things that the mind has not even considered."

"I am afraid... that you will have to elaborate, dear friend."

"I am saying that women are beautiful as roses, and like blossoms I shall continue to admire them- but I long for a partner. A companion, a lover, a-" Lorenz swallows. His knuckles turn white as he clutches too hard to his cup and Ferdinand is afraid that any moment now, the porcelain will crack. "I have decided that I shall not marry. As beneficial as a union between a man and a woman can be, I will not find peace anywhere but in the arms of a man."

The tea leaves a strange aftertaste on Ferdinand's tongue. He breathes in, breathes out, listening to the rush of his own blood in his ears while heat creeps up his neck. He looks around nervous, fearing that someone could have overheard their conversation. How callous and foolish and _bold_ , to speak of such forbidden things in the light of day, where any servant might walk past.

"Are you sure?", Ferdinand whispers. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Would I have told you if I were not?", Lorenz counters. "I have spent plenty of time doubting. Looking for a confidant, looking for advice - but now that I know myself, I cannot go back. I am prepared for the consequences. And I wanted to tell you - oh, for weeks now. But I am no fool. You are still the most likely candidate to become Prime Minister and as such, you must be careful who you surround yourself with. Aligning yourself with a man of my... disposition is going to harm your reputation."

"Lorenz, by the goddess, what are you talking about?"

"I am saying, that for your own sake, you might want to distance yourself from me in the future."

"Nonsense! Do you really think me so weak, so _ignoble_ that I would abandon a friend in pursuit of power? Is that the kind of man you think I am?"

Lorenz sits back, rubbing his wrists. He does not meet Ferdinand's eyes and his silence falls over their conversation like a shadow. Ferdinand shudders. One by one, he is losing all the people he cares about. First his father, then Dorothea and now Lorenz... was this the work of a cruel curse?

A familiar pain pierces his chest.

"Lorenz, I will always be proud to call myself your friend." Ferdinand lays his hand on the table, palm raised to the sky. In truth, he does not know how he feels about this revelation, or what it means for their friendship, what it will mean for Lorenz' future, right now all he wants is to keep his Lorenz by his side.

Inside his ribcage, his lungs refuse to unfold properly, and he waits, and waits, almost breathing. 

Until finally, Lorenz places his hand in his, lashes shimmering with tears.

"Thank you."

Ferdinand has never felt so lost in his entire life, not even on the battlefield, for war was no match to the turmoil inside his head.

That evening, he slips into the collapsed cathedral and kneels down in front of the altar, head bowed. He prays for Lorenz, prays that he does not have to pay dearly for the path he chose. A knot of unease twists in his stomach, a hungry sort of wretchedness although what he feels so wretched for, Ferdinand does not know.

Lorenz is still Lorenz. Elegant, refined, a bit haughty- but always true to himself. He has not become a different man and Ferdinand does not think of him any less.

So why does he feel like Sothis is testing him, watching him? Why are his shoulders heavy with guilt, why does he break a cold sweat whenever he catches Mercedes all too observant eyes linger on him?

(Oh, but he knows. He knows in that dark spot of his heart that he does not touch.)

* * *

It is a rare good day when Hubert can convince Lady Edelgard to rise before dawn. It promises to be even better when she expresses her desire for a hot bath.

He instructs the maids to gather the water and set up screens that she might retreat behind. To grant her some privacy, Hubert sits down at the desk, with his back to the tub and the screens, and starts to brief her on recent developments and reports from his spies.

His Lady is quiet but for the occasional drip of water. Sometimes she asks a question in the monotone of the weary and the sick and Hubert's hands clench to fists.

How he loathes to see her so passive, the light drained from her eyes. No matter which healer he summons, neither incantation nor prayer can cure her from this miserable state. He has to watch as the grief consumes her quietly, paralyzing her, choking her spirit. All he can do is tend to her body's needs: to ensure that she eats, however little. To encourage her to bathe, to wash her hair, to dress her and make her look presentable for a stroll across the monastery.

The people still need their leader. And Hubert cannot let them see how badly their emperor is faring, not at a critical time like this. He only hopes that her strength will return soon.

There is a soft knock at the door.

And a splash, as Lady Edelgard sits up in her tub.

"Hubert-", she says and her wet feet pitter-patter on the marble floor as she rushes for a towel.

He puts down the documents and strides towards the door, opening it just a crack... and spies little Lysithea, in her white and purple dress. A basket is tucked under her arm, covered with a piece of cloth that hides something sweet and delightful - Hubert can smell the jam and the sugar and if his nose does not fool him, a hint of vanilla.

He announces their visitor to Lady Edelgard.

"Do let her in," she says, quietly, as she struggles not to get lost in her dress' sleeves.

Hubert swings open the door and takes a step back. Lysithea enters the room as if she owns it, and if she takes offense at the tangled covers of the bed, or the disarray of the desk she does not say. She does not flinch either at the sight of her empress with her hair down, still soaking wet.

"I bring a treat, with regards from Ferdinand von Aegir," she says and pulls the cloth of her basket, revealing a pile of big, round ox eye cookies. 

"A treat, eh?", Hubert says, craning his neck. The glossy jam filling seems to call for him and he is tempted to reach for one, when she notices the mischievous smirk with which he is mustered.

"Is it true that these are your favorites?"

"They are the one sweet confection I might indulge in, given that I had to choose one," Hubert replies, admitting nothing but wondering how von Aegir would have known. "Allow me-"

He reaches for a cookie and takes a bite. The dough is soft, but not underbaked, the ring of marzipan is sweet yet crude in shape, as if crafted by an unskilled hand. Hubert knows, of course, that the kitchen is lit and occupied many a night, a fact that he still has to address because it poses a safety risk. But, digging his teeth into the red jelly and savoring the taste of home, of cold winter nights around the fire as his nursemaid told him tales of cruel rulers and cunning wizards, Hubert closes his eyes and _enjoys_.

Lady Edelgard steps next to him, her head bent to the side as she rubs her hair dry with a towel. "Oh," she says. "How kind of Ferdinand."

Kind indeed. Hubert wonders what could have possibly motivated the cavalier to such a gesture, as it does not fit in with his ongoing quest to surpass Lady Edelgard. He is not so foolish to assume that it was for his own sake, despite the choice of cookies. No, he rather suspects it is a symptom of the recent change that Ferdinand is going through. The man has become... skittish of lately. His smile no longer reaches the eyes and begins to crumble as soon as he thinks himself unobserved. He is awake at nightly hours, either because sleep eludes him or because he fails to stay asleep.

In an effort to get to the heart of the problem, Hubert even went as far as inviting Ferdinand for tea. Ferdinand had declined, of course - with a frantic excuse, without offering a time when it would be more convenient for him. Simple as that. Sure, Hubert could push harder, but...

It is a time of duress for all of them. Her Majesty needs all of his support. Lysithea has proven a great help, both in terms of tending to the emperor's physical well-being, as well as strategic council. But Hubert also has a network of spies to manage. And he keeps an eye on Bernadetta, too, as she is the most sensitive member of the strike force. So, Hubert is handling enough tasks already that he could deal with the tangled mess of Ferdinand von Aegir's problems as well.

He reaches for another ox eye cookie.

Next to him, Lysithea takes her Majesty's hand and guides her to a chair, producing a vial of hair oil from the folds of her dress. She is going to work it in and then start to braid Lady Edelgard's hair, the way Hubert has taught her to. Indulging in light conversation, maybe even eliciting a rare giggle. ( _They could be sisters_ , he thinks, and allows himself to smile.)

His assistance will not be needed for the next minutes, so Hubert sits down at the desk and rifles through the decrypted reports of his informants. But the letters and symbols blur before his eyes, and their meaning eludes his tired and distracted mind. The taste of marzipan and sweet jam lingers on his tongue and makes him think of windows aglow in the night, of warm amber eyes that become duller every day, signs of exhaustion etching into Ferdinand's face.

It may not be his duty to soothe this ache, but saints, he wants to. Just once, he wants to put his hands on the sides of that aggravatingly lovely face and brush away the fear that has crept in. 

* * *

More than ever, Ferdinand is intent to set things right with Dorothea. 

He prepares a basket of sweet treats and her favorite wine and takes her out on an afternoon ride, to the lake near Garrech Mach. Although she is quiet, she holds so tightly onto him. Her warmth against his back, her cheek against his shoulder, these things feel familiar. He wants this: meaningful embraces and intimate conversations. Support, an understanding. He wants to cherish and protect her.

"I love you," Ferdinand whispers as they recline on a picnic blanket. He puts an arm around her shoulders. He raises her knuckles to his lips and seals his declaration with a kiss.

"Do you?" Dorothea is not so easily convinced. She is a clever woman, one that has been hurt and mistreated by men far too often, so he does not begrudge her distrust. 

"I would slay a dozen of demonic beasts to prove it to you."

"Ferdie, you can hardly bear to _touch_ me."

He swallows, but his mouth feels dry. "I will learn. Dorothea, please give me, give _us_ , another chance."

She puts her hands on his chest… and gives him a light shove. He pulls back, granting her some distance. Has he asked for too much too soon?

Dorothea combs a hand through her hair. She regards the basket of sweets he brought and her face clouds over. "I like you, Ferdie. I like you _so much_ , but that's why I have to tell you no. Because it would be selfish of me to claim you for myself when I can't make you happy."

"What are you talking about?"

"I have not forgotten the last time we met, how you could not _wait_ to run away from me, as soon as Hubert gave you an excuse to."

"I was _not-_ ", Ferdinand protests, but she interrupts him with a raise of her hand.

"And that's alright. You were uncomfortable and I should have noticed. I- I really enjoyed what we had and I wanted to make it last, thinking that you felt the same way. You were the first one who could make me smile after... after everyone left." And she shows him one of her best smiles, brave and a little bit sad. "You're a good friend, Ferdie. And I will always be there for you, and support you because I know you would do the same for me. But I think deep down, you know what you really want. And it isn't _this_."

What he wants? He wants to set a good example that will remind his peers what it means to be _noble_. Diligence, generosity, righteousness, honor. He wants to prove himself, he wants to surpass Edelgard and become a better man in doing so.

"Did you ever dream about falling in love?" Dorothea whispers into the silence caused by Ferdinand's pensive state. "Back when your father was still trying to arrange marriages for you? I... wasted a good deal of my time here at Garrech Mach trying to find a wealthy man who would make a passable husband. Love always seemed like a luxury that I could not afford, although... sometimes I caught myself hoping for it. And then... then there was that week when we had to protect Ingrid from her vile suitor."

Dusk paints the sky in hues of pink and orange, giving her cheeks a warm glow.

"I remember," Ferdinand said. Although what he remembers most clearly is this: Dorothea throwing her spells with unparallelled fierceness, shouting her anger into the face of every foe. The professor marching with solemn determination that seemed to infect their entire class as they took up a protective formation around Ingrid. Even Hubert had lost his sarcasm; he made not a single snide remark throughout this mission. Ferdinand also remembers the heat rising from the ground. He remembers worrying for his horse, and how at times, his lance threatened to slip from his sweat-stained hands.

"She gave me a ring as a token of appreciation," Dorothea continues. "I teased her about it, but... I also thought then, about how badly I wanted to save her from her lot. I wanted to take her hand and run, far away from the reach of her family, to a small community where no one would know our names, where no one cared much about crests or nobles or rulers. Where she could have worked as a guard of some sort while I would take up a position as a music teacher for some of the more well-off families - I had a whole plan figured out. And then, at the night of the ball, when none of the fine gentlemen would even look at me, I pulled Ingrid on the dancefloor and told her about it. It was meant to come out as a joke, of course. And oh, how she laughed! She might as well have launched a javelin at my heart."

Dorothea's lower lip trembles and her eyes shimmer. A single tear spills onto her cheek; she wipes it away hastily. "I realized too late what a proper fool I was. Falling in love with my friend, who was even less free to choose her fate than I was. And who could not even imagine choosing _me_. Silly, right?"

"Dorothea-" Her name turns to cotton on his tongue. Words get stuck in his throat, a big, nondescript lump of them. What could he possibly say to that? And how come that all of his friends suddenly confess to him? He has no power to give absolution, or even soothe their troubled minds. He cannot even tend to his own unrest.

So Ferdinand reaches out, and takes her hand carefully in his own.

"But I don't regret any of it! I'm not ashamed of who I am, or who I choose to be with, I'm not ashamed of who I choose to love. And I hope that one day you will find someone. Someone who will make you feel at peace."

His chest grows tight with fondness and melancholy.

 _Someone_.

His pulse is too loud in his ears.

Do they know? Can they see right through him? Have Dorothea and Lorenz joined forces to coerce his secret out of him? But they speak of love, when all he has to show is a flickering uncouth desire, a glance stolen every now and then, admiring the physique of a fellow paladin-

This is not love, but a startling development. One that he ought to defeat if he ever wants to be a proper noble. 

So Ferdinand still says nothing, does nothing but pull Dorothea into a tight embrace, and buries his face inside her beautiful auburn locks. The scent of her hair oil is calming. He needs this more than she does. He doesn't let her know. 

He doesn't let anyone know.

* * *

It is the 23rd day of the Wyvern Moon. The sky is drawn; a wet and unpleasant chill hangs in the air which promises rain, but Ferdinand von Aegir is not deterred from his training by the prospect of a cold fall shower. He ties his hair back with a ribbon, picks up a wooden training staff and smiles at his opponent.

Petra grins wildly, twirling her own staff.

Dorothea cheers from the sidelines, yelling encouragements along the lines of: "Go, Petra! Whoop his ass!" which is met with indignation from Ferdinand and confusion from Petra.

"I am seeing no ass," Petra replies, and Dorothea snorts with amusement.

"That's right, because Ferdie doesn't have one," she teases. Her cheeks are flushed, warmed by mulled wine. Ferdinand sighs and considers himself lucky that in Petra's understanding, this conversation is about a donkey. He is too much of a noble to try and defend his rump.

"We should wait for the others," he says, his eyes straying once more to the door.

"We must not be waiting for Linhardt. He is having a nap."

 _Of course he is,_ Ferdinand grumbles. He wonders what kind of arguments the professor used to convince Linhardt to show up for class and training. All that Ferdinand knows is that as long as his classmate is too skilled a mage on the battlefield, Hubert will not bother admonishing him. And, speaking of the fiend… "Hubert is late as well."

"Oh, I bet Hubie is still having his hair cut."

"Right," Ferdinand says. 

For the past moons now, Shamir had offered to coiff the hair of the members of the Black Eagle Strike Force, about every second week. And every second week, Ferdinand found himself already occupied, sometimes by choice. He has not grown tired of his own face in the mirror yet and the longer hair is not that hard to manage.

"Shall we begin, then?", he asks.

Petra responds by lowering her body and wrapping both of her hands around the lance. Ferdinand places his feet in his dancer's position, balancing his lance high.

Ferdinand _waltzes_ into motion, the swing of his arm graceful if predictable. Petra dodges, light on her feet; she leaps like an acrobat. A thrust, hidden in a flurry of limbs. Ferdinand parries without breaking his rhythm. He swipes his lance at her legs and she jumps as if playing a game of hopscotch.

Petra is fast, so much faster than him, but he has the advantage of strength. So, as long as he can land a hit-

Ferdinand waits for the next thrust, blocks, and twists _into_ the movement, catching hold of Petra's weapon with his right hand, while pushing his right elbow forward. He stops the moment short of her throat, demonstrating that he could have hit her, if he wanted to.

"Stop showing off and stick to the rules, Ferdie", Dorothea yells, all in good humor.

Petra snickers and says: "You are fighting like a game. Let us fight in earnestness, please."

"As you wish." He takes a step back, releasing Petra's spear, and bows, before returning to his initial position. 

They circle one another in a slow, deliberate pace. Waiting for an opening, for a moment to pounce-

The doors to the training grounds swing open.

From the corner of his eyes, Ferdinand spots a dark-haired figure, a tall stranger in a white, collarless long-sleeved shirt and he is transfixed on the curve of a pale neck, the strong jaw-

Only when his gaze trails higher does he recognize the familiar set of features, sharper now that they are exposed.

And as Ferdinand gapes at Hubert for a beat too long, Petra launches forward.

A swing, a shout of warning - Ferdinand whips his head around just in time for the blunt wooden spear to whack against his temple. 

A crack, then pain and darkness and gravity doing a real funny trick and pain again, rippling along his spine.

His ears ring like the song of metal scraping against metal. Distant voices shout in alarm-

_-and he tastes blood. His body is numb to anything but the tightness in his chest and his skin prickles as his sweat starts to dry. Around him, the battle goes on. Dorothea screaming for him as he lies on the cold earth, defeated, powerless._

_Tears blur his vision and all he sees is a bleak grey sky and color moving all around him._

_Something touches his forehead and Ferdinand thrashes, screams._

_A voice, dark and low, hissing his name._

_"-Will you stop it!"_

_A heavy weight bears down on his legs, strong hands force his arms down. This is the end._

_Another brush against his forehead, lighter this time, and a wave of magic trickling over him, tingling like ginger, like bubbly wine-_

Dorothea's _magic._

Ferdinand struggles to take another rasping breath as his vision clears and he meets two pairs of green eyes staring back at him, wide with fear and it is the paler pair that he lingers on.

"Ferdie?", Dorothea shouts. "Ferdie, can you hear me?"

He is too aware of Hubert's weight bearing down on him to give an answer. Hubert, who looks altogether transformed, refined with his cropped hair, the raven curls still wet, the collarbone exposed in a most indecent manner. Hubert, who does not allow for failure, pinning Ferdinand down like a taxonomy butterfly, transfixing him as he is at his weakest.

"Get. Off. Me," Ferdinand chokes out. "Can't- breathe."

His hands are shaking. His heart throws itself too heavy against his ribcage, trapped, trapped, trapped, he is trapped and he is defective and they all _saw_ -

Hubert lets go of him. He stands, watching, _always watching_ , as Dorothea wraps an arm around Ferdinand, helping him sit up. She places her hand on his sternum and tries to heal him again. Her spell washes over him without taking hold, because there is nothing that it can fix.

Ferdinand barely registers it. He is trembling, sweating from a fever without a cure. He has to hold himself together, pretend that everything is fine-

"I'll bring you to the infirmary," Hubert decides. Commands.

"I can make it on my own."

"Possibly. I will not risk it, though."

Hubert extends a hand, bare and _human_. And although the days when Ferdinand would have considered Hubert a devil are long past, he knows that taking it will seal his fate. But what other chance does he have?

So Ferdinand reaches out. As his gloved fingers brush against warm skin, a peal of thunder shakes the skies, and the first droplets start to fall.

It is the end. 

A light drizzle wets his hair and his shoulders as Hubert urges him forward, his hand resting against Ferdinand's lower back. They walk past the side entrances of the great hall, and instead march straight ahead, along the mostly abandoned student dorms. 

"This is not the way to the infirmary," Ferdinand pants. He does not mind the pace, in fact, everything inside him screams to run, run and hide, but he is not a coward.

"Do you think Professor Manuela can help you when Dorothea's magic failed?", Hubert replies.

"I can still fight," Ferdinand blurts out.

Hubert blinks. Stops for a moment and turns to face Ferdinand. Dressed down like this, his hair studded with raindrops like jewels, his neck and nape exposed, Hubert looks almost vulnerable. Handsome, too, which does not strike as fair. If he is to be Ferdinand's executioner, he ought to shroud himself in shadows and death. It would be familiar, at last.

"Whatever are you talking about?", he growls.

"This is- a minor issue. I can- fight- on horseback." 

"You are _wheezing,_ and trembling like a leaf in a gale. You can barely walk straight-"

" _Please_ ," Ferdinand begs. The word is a painful lump in his throat, threatening to choke him. Tears well in his eyes and he tries to blink them away, cursing his weakness. If only he were better, stronger, not threatening to fall apart with every step. "I can try. I can be useful."

But the truth is, he cannot even stop his hands from shaking, and Hubert grows ever more bewildered. "Ferdinand," he says. There's pity in his voice and it's more than Ferdinand can bear.

He clamps a hand in front of his mouth, to stifle the sob that escapes his mouth. Who is he trying to fool? He is a mess, no use to anyone. Like this, he can protect no one.

"Ferdinand, look at me!"

A hand seizes him by the shoulders. Through a veil of tears, he lifts his gaze.

"How long have you been suffering from these attacks?"

"I-" He shakes his head, refusing.

"You are safe here. Do you hear me? And you have plenty of qualities that we can employ without sending you to the battlefield, as soon as you feel better, but first I will take you do Bernadetta. You ought to talk to her."

"I can't." He tries to wipe the tears from his face, but more spill. "She can't see me like this."

"Don't be ridiculous. She is your friend. Let her help you."

Reluctantly, Ferdinand lets Hubert guide him to Bernadetta's door. It is open, like most of these days. Bernadetta sits by her desk, hunched over a beautiful bodice, her fine needle and thread darting up and down to shape a flower petal on purple fabric.

She takes one look at Ferdinand, then at Hubert, who simply says: "He needs your expertise." He gives Ferdinand another reassuring clap on the back before retreating, and closing the door behind him quietly.

And there is silence.

She puts away her embroidery slowly, tucking the needle safe into the silk, lest it gets lost. "Ferdie?", she asks. "What happened?"

It is the questions of questions, is it not? Nothing happened. And at the same time, everything happens so much, all the time-

"I burst into tears, right in front of Hubert," is what he offers, then and there. And to his surprise, she offers him a meek smile.

"It happens. Would you like a cup of tea?"

He does, very much.

Bernadetta does most of the talking. Ferdinand tries to listen, drying his sore cheeks, but he still feels half-removed from the world and his thoughts keep running away from him. His heart is a heavy lump inside of him, although it has calmed somewhat.

His friend paints a picture of her struggles and the more Ferdinand hears, the more familiar it feels. If someone had told him a year ago, that he and Bernadetta were the same, he would have laughed in their face. But as it turns out, they share the same demons.

Bernadetta exposes them all. The looming shadow of one's own failings and inadequacies, which must be so blatant and obvious to the curious eye. The certainty of having no purpose at all, and the weight of everyone's expectations, or the expectations of expectations.

The voice in the night that whispers ' _am I just a burden? Is everyone just putting up with little old me out of politeness? How long until they inevitably grow sick of me, grow sick of my failures?_

"You're not," Ferdinand says. He studies the way she holds herself, leaning forward, a hand clutched to her stomach, as is all that turmoil is going to make her sick. And maybe it does. "A burden, I mean. You are a dear friend and I am glad to have met you. I know the others feel the same."

Tears well up in her lovely eyes, and she laughs, quiet, sniffling. "I know! That's the ridiculous thing about it, usually I _know_. Everyone is being so kind here, looking after me, calling me their friend - and still I can't believe it. Still I find myself thinking that if I say or do the wrong thing, I will ruin it all. And then I forget about the good things while the bad things count so much, or I get hung up over something insignificant and it hurts so much that it's hard to breathe. But I don't know how to be any other way."

She takes a deep breath, trembling like a hummingbird. Ferdinand pats her hand.

"Linhard says that it is an affliction of the soul, common in soldiers and people who were hurt. Like scars of the mind. And that's such a horrible thing, isn't it? I wouldn't want anyone else to feel like I do."

She blinks and studies the floor.

"But if it is an illness, there has to be a way to treat it... right?" Ferdinand asks, all too eager.

Bernadetta shakes her head. "Kindness. Patience, perhaps. Trusting the people that you care about, which is easier said than done-" She shrugs. "It comes and goes in waves. But Mercie, she's been such a help. She's just so nice. And she keeps saying that it doesn't help trying to be someone that I am not, only to please others. And that it's alright to pick my own pace, and... you should try it too, you know."

"Pardon?"

"I- I mean!", Bernadetta blurts and throws up her hands. "I just think that you don't need to compete with Edelgard all the time. Or at all. Because you're not her, you're you and that's good! And, and... please don't be mad at me!" She curls into a ball and clasps her hands over her head.

"I'm not mad, Bernadetta," Ferdinand says wearily. He wonders how pathetic his personal endeavor looks to the others. Edelgard is unreachable, untouchable. Too important to even show her face, lately. But… "I'm supposed to be her equal, don't you see?"

"See, that's the mistake we make. You mustn't think about what you are _supposed_ to be or what you should do - think about what you can do now. What you would _like_ to do now. Mercie says that I think too much about what I cannot do and then lose sight of the things that are good about me. Like, I managed to leave my room! And I am a really good shot, even if I don't like shooting people. I can sew and draw and write. These things count, too. And you... you are kind. And you're really good with horses."

 _'You have plenty of qualities that we can employ without sending you to the battlefield,'_ Hubert had said. Without a trace of irony, or mockery. And Ferdinand kind of wants to laugh, because what would that make of him? A stable boy? An apprentice baker? 

What a waste.

He is not like Linhardt, who can afford to stay behind every once in a while to tend to the wounded while Professor Manuela takes his place on the battlefield. (And oh, she is fearless. She does not flinch at a drop of blood.)

A break sounds nice, though.

He is so, so tired.

"War is a horrid time to be selfish, though, don't you think?" he says. And before he can think twice about it, he continues. "I am meant to be self-sufficient, if nothing else. Reliable. And I want to be a better man than those corrupt noblemen, men like my father, who only think of furthering their own riches - but how can I do that, how can I fight for a better future for our country, if I sometimes fall too ill to even think straight? How can I become the next Prime Minister if I could fall apart from one moment to the next? I know what I want to do, who I want to become, but what if I am simply too weak and too defective to achieve these goals?"

"I don't know," Bernadetta says quietly. "That's what you have to figure out. But you don't have to do it alone. We're here for you. Me, and Dorothea, and Mercie, if you want to. And I know you don't always get along with Hubert, but- he's considerate in his own weird, sometimes brutal way. He offered on multiple accounts to have my father assassinated. I declined, of course." She offers a wan smile. "Either way, if you need to talk, if you need to cry, I'll be here. No one else has to know. And if you don't want to talk, that's fine too. You could put your thoughts on paper, to get them out. Keep a diary."

Ferdinand promises to at least consider it although all that he can think of is how easy it would be to discover a diary. For Hubert, no less. The thought of being known so intimately by a man like him, to reveal in the smallest of details just how pathetic he feels-

He would rather drown in his misery than let that happen.

* * *

As the month comes to its end, the Adrestan army finds itself in another skirmish for supply lines, this time without the support of the most prominent members of the Black Eagle Strike Force. 

Hubert has fallen sick with a fever. Lysithea takes his place at the emperor's side for the coming battle, a terrifying catapult of dark magic, well protected by Edelgard's shield. Lorenz Hellman Gloucester sits high on his steed, the very image of nobility, a worthy stand-in for Ferdinand von Aegir. Linhardt is forced to play a more active and offensive role than he would have liked as Dorothea stays at the monastery, tending to the sick.

They adapt.

In Garrech Mach, the sound of Hubert's hacking cough carries along the dormitory hallway. He is torn between shivering and feeling like a furnace, between sleep that brings dreams as restless as a stormy sea and being awake with dulled senses, a stuffy nose and an insufferable pressure pounding behind his eyes.

Hubert is miserable and grouchy.

Sometimes, he finds a fresh cup of tea beside his bedstead. A disgusting blend of medicinal herbs which he drinks with no small amount of complaints, even though no one is there to witness it.

And then, he finds a chair pulled up next to his bed, and Ferdinand von Aegir curled up inside that chair, wearing only a coat over his nightshirt and a pair of purple knit socks, most likely made by Bernadetta. Ferdinand is still as a statue for the most part, his gaze distant, removed, apathetic. It appears that after the crying and the despair, he has settled into the same numbness that already struck Edelgard.

He must be cold, too, Hubert thinks. And his fever-addled mind can think of nothing else but how warm they'd be if they both crept under the covers.

Foolishness.

Mucus rattles in his lungs, irritates his throat, and he coughs and hacks and nearly retches, until a strong arm guides him into a sitting position and a lukewarm cup of tea is guided to his lips.

"You sound horrible," Ferdinand says.

"You _look_ horrible," Hubert retorts inbetween rasping breaths. He takes a few sips before the disgusting tea is removed again.

"You look like you've had a tussle with death and barely won." Ferdinand presses his knuckles against Hubert's forehead and adds, quieter, "You look how I feel."

"Then leave the sick watch to Dorothea."

"It's the middle of the night, Hubert."

Is it? He has lost all track of time and with the curtains drawn, it is impossible to tell. "Then why are you up?"

"I could not sleep."

Hubert makes a disgruntled noise to show his acknowledgement. Then he falls back on his pillow and draws the covers over his shoulder. "You still have to try."

"Maybe I will."

Ferdinand retreats to the chair like a guard returning to their assigned post. Draws his feet back up and wraps his arms around himself. It looks uncomfortable. Hubert is not so sick that he needs constant medical attention; Ferdinand's presence is not necessary, a fact that the man himself ought to be aware of. 

"That doesn't look too comfortable," Hubert points out.

Ferdinand puts his hair behind his ear. His adam's apple bobs as he swallows and stares at his own feet. His toes wiggle inside the socks. "I will manage."

Hubert waits an appropriate amount of time for Ferdinand to follow up on his statement. When he does not, Hubert says: "There is another set of blankets in the trunk by my bed."

He rolls over, to face the wall and closes his eyes. Perhaps once he recovers, the behaviour of Ferdinand von Aegir will make more sense. And perhaps, once the fever breaks and his strength recovers, he will also be cured of the desire to be tended to by this aggravating, confusing, fumbling fop with his noble attention and his palpable misery.

And yet, as the chair creaks, Hubert still catches his breath, listening, waiting. Longing for an embrace that never will be.


	3. Fumbling

_ I glow pink in the night in my room _ _   
_ _ I've been blossoming alone over you _ _   
_ _ And I hear my heart breaking tonight _ _   
_ _ I hear my heart breaking tonight _ _   
_ _ Do you hear it too? _

Mitski, “Pink in the Night”

* * *

After an impossible year, the Black Eagle Strike Force leaves Garrech Mach for Enbarr. In an effort to recruit more troops, the Emperor turns to the complacent nobles who have yet to see the need for action. It requires equal parts diplomacy and subtle threats.

But the city also provides some lovelier distractions. There is the occasional ball and nights at the opera - Ferdinand visits a performance for the first time in years, accompanied by the two beautiful singers that he used to admire in his youth. Manuela drinks too much and Dorothea has some critical remarks about the quality of the primadonna's voice, but...

Little by little, Ferdinand feels human again.

In the city, he is just a face in the crowd, one of many. And he can breathe easier.

And then, one fateful night, Randolph von Bergliez takes him and Lorenz to a special gentleman's club. He does not get to enjoy their company for very long, as Randolph only has eyes for Lorenz, who in turn becomes quite giddy with the attention, not to mention positively drunk with infatuation - but it does not take long until a stranger asks Ferdinand for a dance.

And as he finds himself caught in a slow waltz with a tall, handsome merchant son who holds him a little too tight and whispers passionate compliments into his ears that make Ferdinand shiver, he begins to realize that there are places for men like him, after all. He spots some familiar faces among the patrons, younger sons of once influential noble houses. One of them raises his glass in acknowledgement and approval.

Ferdinand does not go home with his shiny new suitor, but they find a dark corner and kiss like tomorrow won't arrive, in a way that leaves Ferdinand ruffled and speechless, and burning for more. He wants. He wants so much and he wants it all as if one night can make up for what has been missing from his live for the past two years, ever since adolescence started the slow metamorphosis of his body. He wants the fumbling and gasping, the teeth scraping sore lips and gloves fingers teasing at small buttons. But he also wants the slow, embarrassing courtship that he can see unfurl between Randolph and Lorenz, who, despite their differences in character, are so enraptured with one another like two heroes from a romantic novel.

And so Ferdinand learns how to declare his interest ever so subtly that in mixed company it could be passed off as a mere compliment, its meaning stoked by glances held for a heartbeat too long, by a friendly touch that lingers. He has dinners with admirers under the guise of diplomacy and networking. He keeps kissing strangers, for no other reason than the joy of it. 

He does not choose a lover. He has yet to find a man whose sight takes his breath away, who demands his attention fully, and who is  _ easy to love _ , quite unlike-

Well.

While they are in Enbarr, Ferdinand sees little of Hubert. And it should be a blessing, because Hubert does not fit in with this new world that Ferdinand is exploring, although now that he has found a name for his longing, now that he has felt another man's touch, it is impossible to pretend any longer that he does not feel some kind of attraction for his former classmate.

As far as lovers go, Hubert would be a terrible choice, of course. Rude, occasionally unsettling, not to mention the fact that he barely tolerates Ferdinand. Those are hardly the right conditions for a dizzying romance, so Ferdinand would do well to get over his little...  _ infatuation _ . And he tries, oh, does he try! But it is easy not to care about his cunning eyes and his quiet, cruel sort of laughter when one is out of their reach.

Hubert is not handsome in the traditional way, not like the striking bachelors that Ferdinand meets in the capital. There is no lack of young, well-groomed men of good social standing who mind their manners, who know how to bow and dance, who have an interest in fashion without being vain. They are well-meaning and round-cheeked and harbor a half-baked interest in politics at best; in short, they are  _ boring _ .

Hubert von Vestra is intense, harsh, often morose. He appears cruel and Ferdinand has yet to figure out when it is only an act and when it is not. His dedication to Lady Edelgard and her cause would be admirable if it had been exercised with anything resembling moderation, if he had allowed himself to be more than just an extension of her will. He claims to be an instrument of destruction, denying all shreds of humanity as if he did not also look out for Bernadetta whenever he could, as if he did not spill awkwardly floral declarations from time to time. There was still much to discover, underneath that cold and abrasive exterior.

No matter how often Ferdinand tried to visualize Hubert's most aggravating quirks and faults, it did not make him care less. On the contrary, he finds himself getting worked up about wasted potential, about the man that Hubert could easily be, if he cared for it. A nobler man. A prouder man.

(But even if he were, he would not care for Ferdinand.)

* * *

The war drags on. For every bit of terrain that they conquer, they lose another. And eventually, the capital loses its appeal; the colorful parties of the rich start to feel like a grotesque mockery. As the nobles revel in excess and decadence, as they gorge themselves on delicacies and wine, the common people are starving while their fields are trampled down and littered with corpses. Families struggle to manage their businesses as the eldest children leave to join the army. Blood and rot poison the water and disease riddles the camps along all sides of the borders.

The Black Eagle Strike Force returns to Garrech Mach frequently, ensuring that the monastery is well-protected. Aside from the strategically beneficial position, it is a campsite that still provides moderate comfort, ideal for those new recruits who grew up with silver spoons in their mouth. Garrech Mach ensures that they suffer less of a culture shock when they are eventually stationed elsewhere.

Ferdinand comes to look forward to returning there. Between Enbarr and his occasional visits to the von Aegir manor, where memories lurk in every room, Garrech Mach feels more quiet, more personal - and it is not so far removed from the war.

Four and a half years pass by so fast.

It is the morning of Garrech Mach's millenium anniversary. No banners adorn the halls, no special celebratory meal was promised by the kitchen staff and there will certainly be no ball later in the evening, no sparkly wine glittering in slim glasses, no couples sneaking off to the goddess tower - well. The last part might yet come to pass.

Ferdinand von Aegir is celebrating in his own way. His hands are occupied with the very important task of mapping out the width of his new lover's chest, who appears to have him well pinned against a wall inside the stables, far away from any curious eyes. Normally, Ferdinand is not one to yield so easily, especially since he came here to instruct the young man in how to tend to the horses, but August is nothing if not eager. (He has to be: as the fourth son of a minor noble house, possessing neither influence nor a crest, determination and achievements in the war are his best chances at social advancement.)

And when August's strong hands trail along the sides of Ferdinand's thighs, his knees get a little weak. Even if his lover’s affections are a bit rough and unrefined, he is hungry. And there is no rush greater than the certainty of being wanted.

"Slow... down," Ferdinand giggles, when his lips are released for a moment, having suffered some bittersweet abuse. He brings his fingertips against his sore lower lip, half sure that August's attention has drawn blood.

"But I want you  _ now _ ," the young man growls and oh, it does not leave Ferdinand unaffected. August is a straightforward one, not much for purple prose and the long-winded dance of courtship that Ferdinand would have liked to indulge in, but there is something to be said about the rustic hands-on approach. So he bats his lashes and brings his palm to rest against the bulge of his lover's breeches, sizing up the reward that he might claim for himself later.

"Shhhh, dear, I know. But there is a time and place for, ah,  _ reconnaissance _ , and it is not here, in broad daylight. So either we can practice some subtlety now, or you will have to wait until tonight-"

"Your chambers?"

"Absolutely not." The words escape before he can soften the tone. The mere thought of August in his room - broad shouldered August with his doe brown eyes and his straw blond hair and the grace of a boar, loud and boisterous, taking up so much space between Ferdinand's dearest possessions... not to mention the risk of running into Caspar or-

"There are plenty of uninhabited rooms on the ground floor," he says, quickly. "Close to the training grounds. The first one is barred, but the others are all vacant. So, how about we meet tonight, at the ninth toll of the bell, in the room closest to the stairs?" He speaks carefully, as if trying to negotiate with a child, for August is quick to frown and grow petulant when he does not get his way. Ferdinand wonders if he had been told ‘no’ so often in his life that any sign of rejection left him frustrated now. 

And there it is, his telltale pout. August's hand buries deep in the fabric of Ferdinand's shirt and he yanks, causing Ferdinand to stumble into yet another hard, possessive kiss. 

_ So many inches of man and not one of them suited for gentleness, _ Ferdinand thinks and breathes a plaintive sigh into his lover's mouth. 

The door to the stable all but bursts open. Magic crackles through the air, the horses rear in panic.

Ferdinand nearly jumps.

He dodges out of August's embrace, diving for his coat and tie, discarded in the hay. As he hurried his limbs into his clothes, he scans the floor for his tie pin, but if there is a hint of gold among the yellow straw, he cannot spot it - well, he has to assume it lost, much like some of his shirt's buttons that fell victim to  _ someone's  _ passionate impatience.

"Really, Hubie", Dorothea’s voice echoes across the stables. "That was wholly unnecessary. You nearly hit me. I'm not above breaking a man's arms, you know."

"If you don't intend to get hit, then perhaps you would do well to not stand in my way," Hubert retorts, his steps approaching fast.

Ferdinand fiddles with the buttons of his coat, praying that it will hide what has become of his shirt. He stuffs the tie in a pocket, runs a hand through his hair to smooth it out, adjusts his sleeves - and then Hubert already turns around the corner, looking even more of a murderous shadow than usual.

"There you... are," he says, his agitation quickly dissolving into confusion as he takes in the two men before him, minding an awkward distance, their clothes in varying degrees of disarray.

"Hubert!", Ferdinand greets with a patented smile and a generous amount of fake cheer. He is very aware of the heat coloring his cheeks, and how the air stings on his love-bitten lip. "Did you know that there is a way to open doors without terrifying the horses? And it requires only the use of your hands!"

Hubert continues to stare in disbelief. His eyes are transfixed at a point below Ferdinand's face, and Ferdinand feels compelled to cover his bare throat with his hand. It is the disheveled collar? Or has August left a visible mark at his neck?

Dorothea appears by Hubert's side and clears her throat. "Ferdie, you have to excuse Hubie's haste and disturbing lack of manners-"

"Nothing I am not accustomed to," he mutters.

"-but Edie, that is to say  _ Her Majesty _ , has summoned us to her office. Now."

"Did something happen?"

"An unexpected visitor," Hubert explains curtly. He shifts his weight on his feet. "And while it is a matter that needs urgent response, I sure hope you intend to brush up your appearance before facing Her Majesty. For your own sake," Hubert threatens.

"Or what?", August interrupts.

Dorthea's eyes widen and Ferdinand draws in a sharp breath, but before he can admonish the young man or apologize for his rudeness, Hubert stalks closer to August, like a secretary bird in pursuit. His hand curls, magic tingles in the air.

August flinches, but does not shrink back.

"Pardon me, I made the error of assuming that you were smart enough to keep your mouth shut when your superiors are talking. A gross miscalculation on my part. I would be delighted to provide a demonstration of the punishments I am capable-"

With a sigh, Ferdinand steps between the two and pats Hubert’s shoulder in an overly familiar manner. "Now now,  _ Hubie _ , that will not be necessary." His friendliness borders on insolence.

Hubert freezes. Whatever spell had been charging between his fingertips dissipates and his gaze is drawn once more to Ferdinand's neck and collarbone, before he tears it away.

"You ought to teach your  _ friend _ some manners, von Aegir," he hisses.

Ferdinand does not give Hubert the satisfaction of flinching, even if it stings. He is being unusually acerbic, even by his standards, and Ferdinand wonders if Edelgard’s announced visitor is to blame. The last time he had seen Hubert so riled up, he had accidentally barged into a whispered conversation between him and Edelgard, one that featured Lord Arundel's name. An ally, for all that Ferdinand knows, for all they let him know.

And that’s the issue, is it not? They are always by themselves, devising schemes, providing only the most necessary bits of information to the rest of the Strike Force. While it is maddening not to be part of it, Ferdinand has gotten better at not taking it personal.

He squeezes Hubert's shoulder once more before letting go.

"I will consider your advice. Now, would you please excuse us? I will join you and the rest of our friends as soon as possible, but I have to clean up here, first."

"As you wish," Hubert barks, and storms off as morosely as he has arrived. 

Ferdinand exchanges a look with Dorothea. He raises his brows; she rolls her eyes.

"I'm sorry Ferdie, I told him you'd be busy, but he refused to slow down. For what it's worth, he didn't tell me what's up, either."

"I am sure you did your best."

"But he does have a point, regarding-" With a flourish of her hand, she gestures at all of Ferdinand. He coughs, half amused, half flustered.

"I promised to see to it, didn't I?"

"Well. I'd love to help you with that, but I think I better follow Hubie. Make sure he doesn't kill anyone with his sour mood. I'll see you later." She winks and turns to August, cheerfully waving. "Goodbye, Ferdie's pet!"

"Well," Ferdinand says with an air of achievement as he puts his hands on his sides. "That was just mildly humiliating."

"I don't get it. Why do you allow that creep to talk to you like that?"

Perhaps he could have ignored the resentment in August's voice, were the young man not also to blame for the loss of his golden tie pin, and were Ferdinand not still ruffled from the vitriol in Hubert's last statement.

"Because he is my companion for many years now, August. He has saved my life on the battlefield countless times, and I his. And if he is privy to insulting me, then know that I will pay him right back. But I still respect him. And you would do well not to make an enemy of him."

Why does he bother defending Hubert? After all, his actions speak loud enough. And if it were not for one of Hubert’s cold and calculated decisions, there would be a different man by Ferdinand's side still. Warming his bed, tracing his scars.

Ferdinand has not yet forgiven Hubert. But he does not appreciate the narrow and prejudiced manner in which people regard him, either. The idea that because he looks like a villain, because he takes on the tasks that no one else dares to, he has to be corrupted to the bone. (And the most infuriating part is how little Hubert tries to disperse this negative image of him.)

He retreats to his room, and heads straight for the wash basin, splashing some cold water in his face. Ferdinand takes a clean rag to wipe his face, and as he raises his head and regards himself proper in the mirror, the shame starts to rise in his chest, crawling up his throat where it forms a lump.

He may not have been caught committing indecencies in broad daylight, but he might as well, considering the state it has left him. Strands of hay cling to his coat and hair, his shirt is rumpled, ruined, exposing a fine sliver of his neck and chest. At least no love-bruises cover his skin.

_ And what if I had marks to tell?, _ he thinks stubbornly.  _ What does it matter who sees or knows? _

Ferdinand takes a few deep breaths as he takes off his outer layers and picks up a fresh shirt. He reminds himself that he has done nothing wrong, that there is nothing shameful about seeking pleasure so long as it is in consensus with all parties. But... some days it takes more effort than others. And if he is honest, he would prefer a little more discretion from his current partner.

He is a General of the Adrestian Empire, and as such, their soldiers look up to him. He does not want to be perceived as the kind of man who has too little restraint to keep his passions to his private quarters.

He runs a brush through his hair until it shimmers and applies beeswax to his poor sore lips. He buttons up his shirt, then his vest, becoming more of the man he wants to be with each layer that he puts on. Someone bold and proud and elegant. Someone ready to take on whatever challenge the day will bring.

  
  


Dorothea catches up on Hubert as he strides over the lawn outside their old class rooms. She reaches for his arm and takes it as if they were but a lovely couple on a stroll. Reluctantly, he slows his pace to matches hers.

"I hope you have learned your lesson," Dorothea says triumphantly, "So next time when I say there's things you might not want to see, you believe me."

There are not miles enough to walk to burn off the restlessness he feels. "How was I supposed to know? You never told me that he has chosen a new paramour."

"Because unless Ferdie decides to confide in you, it's none of your business."

"It was my business two months ago when you and Lorenz came barging into my office, begging me to save his honor," Hubert spits. He does not care to know about all the little intimate details of Ferdinand von Aegir's oh-so-exciting love life, in fact, Hubert would have preferred not knowing about it at all. He is willing to bet that a lot of people would have preferred not knowing anything at all.

They were not given a chance, thanks to Ferdinand's last sweetheart, who turned out to be... how had Gloucester put it?  _ A scoundrel and a braggart. _

Gossip spreads quickly in a war camp, where people hunger for any distraction from uncertainty and looming death.

_ I heard the Duke Aegir likes to ride more than just horses. _

_ With thighs as shapely as his, he sure gets a lot of exercise. _

_ Rumor has it that he can handle a  _ lance _ like no other. _

Hubert balls his fists. But none of the petty remarks compared to the statement that a cup of wine drew from the lips of the suitor himself, when he announced to his circle of knights that Ferdinand von Aegir was  _ 'as needy as a dog, granted, a well-bred one like a spaniel, but a dog nonetheless. A few scraps of praise is all it takes to get his tail a-wagging'.  _ (And more statements in that manner must have followed, but Hubert's spy was wise enough not to repeat those, seeing the look on his master's face.)

He should have poisoned the mongrel, as Dorothea asked him to do. And he might have, if Ferdinand had not been completely and utterly taken with this man. So murder was out of the question, as well as revealing the suitor's indecency. He had to be removed, quietly and discreetly.

Hubert had him stationed at at army camp by the Faerghus border, along with a nice sum to buy his silence and one of Hubert's own mages as a 'personal bodyguard' - who would remind the unworthy fool every now and then that a man was able to fight without his tongue.

But no matter of action could eradicate the rumors that were already circulating and which had only recently stopped rippling through Garrech Mach. Now, Hubert has to fear a new surge.

"Hubie," Dorothea says, squeezing his arm a little tighter. "You're grinding your teeth again."

He _ is _ . Hubert unclenches his jaw with some effort. Dorothea gives him a hearty pat on the forearm.

"Don't worry. I will pay closer attention to this one. I will not trouble you unless it is absolutely necessary."

"I suppose I could have one of my staff make some investigations regarding his background. To get a better idea of what kind of man we are dealing with. After all, any harm caused to a member of our Strike Force will affect us all."

"Aw, how sweet of you to look after Ferdinand."

Hubert sneers. "He is a gullible fool, and his performance sways with his confidence. I do not see how I have any other choice but to keep an eye on him."

"Aaand you ruined it." Dorothea offers an exasperated smile as she untangles from his arm. "You know, it's not gonna hurt you to do the nice thing for niceness' sake sometimes. I heard it's quite attractive with the ladies, too. Just a thought."

There is a special brand of glowering that he reserves for those who give him well-meant advice on etiquette and similar nonsense; it is but a shame that it does not work on Dorothea. His position requires him to be many things: knowledgeable, effective, calculating, unwavering. Loyal. Who gave a damn about being  _ nice _ ?

"We are  _ at war _ . I have no time or energy to spare for such childish things as your hurt feelings. If you let your friendship with von Aegir distract you from his faults, that is your mistake. Do not berate me for refusing to do the same. Now, if you will excuse me-" he bows, the gesture slightly exaggerated, "I have to track down Caspar and Linhardt."

And with that, he moves on, steps hurried by anger. He does not look back once, thus missing the strong gesture with which Dorothea bids him goodbye.

Hubert kept mum about the identity of their guest on Lady Edelgard's behalf and so he gets to witness the faces of his brothers and sisters in arms light up when the professor is led in. Strange, how a single person can brighten up the room and inspire confidence with only her presence, having yet to utter a single word. Such is a kind of power that only saints and icons could wield and while Hubert is wary of glorifying a single person, he is glad to welcome the professor as well - for the unbridled joy in Lady Edelgard's eyes, warm and steady.

They have little time to reminisce and celebrate; tomorrow, they would start to march toward the Airmid river. Tonight, there is a glass of wine in every hand and Byleth patiently endures how everyone begs for a moment of her attention, wanting to fill her in on 5 years worth of achievements. She marvels at growth spurts and hair cuts and lets herself be pulled in more than one bone-crushing hug.

(Naturally, Ferdinand holds on to her tightest and longest.)

Slowly, more guests join in. Professor Manuela and Professor Hanneman, Shamir, Lorenz... Hubert retreats more and more to the window, away from the commotion.

It does not take long until he is joined by one bubbly Ferdinand von Aegir, although it is hard to tell if the wine or the professor's attention is causing his high spirits.

"Hubert, is that a joyful smile I spy on your face? Miracles do happen after all."

"And yet you choose to approach me, knowing full well that this is the most likely way to spoil my mood."

"Oh, shush. I did not come to argue; can we not cast our differences aside for one evening? For the professor."

Hubert takes a sip of his dark red wine, mustering Ferdinand from head to toe. He cleaned up nicely: the collar stands up prim and proper, his crimson tie is folded neatly. All that noble splendor restored, but now that Hubert has caught a glimpse of the skin that lies underneath, it is impossible not to think of the dip of Ferdinand's clavicle, the sparse copper hairs glinting on his chest-

He really ought to drink slower.

Hubert leans a little heavier against the wall, and crosses an arm over his chest. "And do what? Engage in some polite, meaningless conversation about the weather? Inquire about our respective families? Not that there is anything left to inquire about, in my case. Or would you prefer that I feign interest in the details of your latest romantic involvement? What a sublime choice, by the way, the lad looks as bright as an unlit match in a moonless night."

"Right. Forgive me for assuming you were capable of civility. And for someone who claims not to care about my personal affairs, you sure did your best to ruin my previous relationship." The color on Ferdinand’s cheeks deepens. How easy it is to crush his cheer with a few well-aimed words.

"Don't be so vain. I distribute our forces the way I best see fit, it was nothing personal."

"But you knew," Ferdinand hisses. He takes a step closer and buries and accusing finger in Hubert's chest. "You knew that he was mine and you never gave me a say in the matter. I barely had the time to say goodbye."

_ Mine. _ Something turns sour in Hubert's stomach and he tries to flush it out with another big swing of his wine. And if he stares into the bottom of his glass, he does not have to see the wetness glinting in Ferdinand's eyes. So much affection wasted on a sorry excuse of a human being. "Still attached, are we?"

"No. But I am still sorely disappointed that in all this time, you never bothered to explain to me why. We did not need reinforcements for that camp, so I figured that you had some other reason, a security concern perhaps or some political motivation. Whatever it was, you left me in the dark like I was too stupid or too unimportant to know."

Two months ago, Hubert assured that he would be fine taking the blame. That it did not matter much if Ferdinand hated him for it - but now, with his back against the wall and his head starting to swim, with Ferdinand spilling accusations as tears stud his beautiful lashes, Hubert begins to realize his miscalculation. He is not fine with this at all.

"You were too involved," he says.

"You still don't trust me, do you? Oh sure, I am good enough to carry out your plots and stab who I am supposed to stab, but Sothis forbid anyone lets me in on the grander picture. Well guess what, I refuse to be a mere pawn."

Silence ripples through the room. Hubert scans the crowd, but their attention lies not on the scene that Ferdinand is making - because the two of them arguing is too common an occurrence to be worth of note - it lies on the pair that has just arrived. Mercedes smiles and urges Jeritza to take another step forward, despite how out-of-place he looks towering over her, despite the tension that his presence causes.

"I think you might want to leave," Hubert says slowly. It takes some effort to wrap his tongue around the words and he puts his empty glass on the window sill.

"I will not leave until I get my answers."

Jeritza's voice, in all its languid cadence, is unmistakable and it carries far in the quiet room as he offers a few words of greeting.

Ferdinand's eyes widen with alarm - he turns, already reaching for a weapon on his belt and finding it absent. He swallows, hard. Breathes even harder, frozen like a hare before the snake. Hubert stands a little straighter, his hand twitching with the desire to fall upon Ferdinand's shoulder, and pull him closer, back into the lull of their argument.

He balls it to a fist instead. Ferdinand would not allow his touch, caught between fight or flight, tense as a bowstring.

" _ Go _ ," Hubert urges again, a little kinder this time. "I'll keep an eye on him."

"I will. But that does not mean that this conversation is over." Like that, Ferdinand slips away. He keeps to the wall, head bowed, as far away from Jeritza as the crowded office will allow. Professor Manuela soon follows, no surprise here.

Why did Mercedes have to bring him? It was like leading a fox into a chicken's pen. He is a beast trained for hunting, trying to act human - and poorly at that. For now, he obeys every word of Lady Edelgard. For now, there is not a hint of bloodlust to be seen, but give it time... give it one wrong move...

Hubert has itched for an excuse to incinerate the wretched Death Knight, ever since he turned on them in the Holy Mausoleum. What good was this mindless instrument of destruction to them if he would lash out on his own allies?

Hubert is soon joined in his watch as Bernadetta slides up to him, carrying two full glasses of wine, one which she offers to him. He is too glad for it and in turn, wraps his arm around her shoulder so that she may tuck herself proper against his side. 

"You're trembling like a dormouse," he says.

"Well, he's scary!", Bernadetta mumbles into her wine.

"Scarier than me?" He takes a sip. And another, until the drink begins to warm his blood.

"Much, much scarier than you," she agrees and Hubert chuckles to himself. 

"I am losing my touch, then." He does not sound sorry at all.

"I just don't understand why he's... like  _ that,  _ when Mercie is such an angel."

Hubert hums in contemplation. "If I were you I would think twice about marrying into that family."

Bernadetta shrinks into herself, pulling her shoulders all the way to her ears, which turn a bright red. "Who said anything about marrying? I didn't- I  _ wouldn't _ -"

"You barely leave her side anymore," he points out. With delight Hubert watches her fumble, and hide her face behind the sweep of her sleeve. Is this how Dorothea feels every day, when she goes about her teasing ways?

"She's... warm. And kind. She's the kindest person I ever met. When I'm with her, all these thoughts and doubts in my head, they fall quiet. I know you probably think that's weird-"

"I don't." He holds her a little tighter, just because.

Bernadetta bites her lip. Rubs her cheek. "What were you and Ferdie arguing about?"

"The usual. He is an incorrectible noble fool, the shining valiant knight and I am the cruel rotten villain, and so on, and so forth."

"You're  _ drunk _ , that is what you are." She giggles.

"Nonsense. I only had one-" he squints into his glass, which is night empty already. "Two glasses of wine." Made more potent because he forgot to eat dinner. Again.

"Can I give you a piece of advice? You know, while you're too tipsy to fight it." (It is a rhetorical question, as she does not give him enough time to protest.) "You would be fighting a lot less if you showed him every now and then that you care about him."

Hubert laughs, low and bitter, and downs the rest of his wine. "Doesn't matter. He hates me."

"Hubie. For the past four years, he has always made you a batch of your favorite cookies for your birthday. I don't think you ever thanked him? He doesn't hate you, but I think you make it really hard for him to like you. You offer critique, but no praise, although you should know how much he needs it. You worry, but you never tell him. And, the thing is... you don't treat anybody else like that."

Hubert's silence weighs heavy with something quite like petulance. It is not like he asked for all these unnecessary feeling to complicate his life. And even if he had any desire for companionship, let alone romance, he would have picked someone better suited for the task. Someone less obtuse and loud, less naive, less prone to bursting into song when he was happy. It was not Hubert's fault that Ferdinand had become startlingly beautiful, that he kept coming back despite their disagreements, that he had a smile that could shame the sun in brightness.

"He is not like anyone else," Hubert says finally, handling each word with care, as if they were potent poison. "There is no middle ground with him, no restraint. I have nothing to offer to him."

Nothing but a name tarnished with blood, a web of spies, a wretched existence in the shadow. Hubert regrets not the path that he walks but he knows that it is irreconcilable with the reality of Ferdinand von Aegir. After all, one does not plant a flower in tar, locks it away in darkness and expects it to thrive.

He relays nothing of this to Bernadetta, who harbors a plethora of romantic notions (follies!) and who fixes him with a pitiful sort of melancholy.

"If you keep that up, you're going to hurt him and you're going to hurt yourself," she says, more lament than warning.

"I’m prepared for it," Hubert lies.

* * *

When the last blade has fallen to the ground, when the bricks of the bridge have been stained red, the quiet work of a war begins. Healers and mages spread across the battlefield, checking the bodies for signs of life, stabilizing the injured and marking the dead. And while the living are moved and teleported to the nearest building that serves as an impromptu infirmary, the dead are lined up, enemies are buried and allies, friends, lovers are documented.

There is no war without bureaucracy. The moment a person joins the Adrestian army a file is created, stating their physical attributes, their skills and education, the address of the next of kin and, most importantly, some marks by which to identify them. A beauty spot or constellation of freckles in a curious spot, the need for glasses, oddly shaped scars in easy to check places. Some of the older, more experienced fighters wear their name tattooed on their body, to make it easier for the death brigade.

Sometimes, there is no need to rely on such details. When the cold, lifeless body belongs to a friend.

The ungrateful, painstaking work of identifying the bodies falls to Hubert and his battalion of dark mages. He is well-suited for the task: logical to a fault, aware of the sacrifices they must make and he rarely makes the mistake to get involved. Perhaps that is why the people whisper that he has no heart, a rumor that clings to him like a wine stain to white cotton. He will bear it, as he bears most things: stoically, not minding much. What does he care what people say about him as long as he does his duty?

Three hours after the end of the battle, a light rain started to fall and tents were raised to protect the precious identification files from distraction. As Hubert takes in the next body, a single question rose in his mind.

_ Did she know? _

His pulse quickens. He waves to his nearest assistant, beckoning her closer.

"Send for General von Aegir, immediately. He might be helping in the infirmary; check there first."

"And what am I to tell him, Sir?"

"Only that I require his counsel. And bring him here, into this very tent. Make sure he is undisturbed for a while. And... find me a Bishop to cast a silencing spell on the canvas. Understood?"

His assistant nods, and leaves the tent. Hubert turns to the ledger of files and looks for the matching one, before he begins the final examination. August von Schwarzbach (21, male, fourth son of a noble with little influence and less land to fight over) is as unremarkable in death as he was in life. His brown eyes and mousy hair appear a little duller now, his crooked nose the only thing giving his face character. He was a lad of strong build and sturdy health, the callous on his hand proof that he was no stranger to hard work.

And yet, it could not save him.

What was it about him that caught Ferdinand's eye?

_ Cause of death, _ Hubert writes and hesitates. Lifts what is left of the blood-stained, half-burned vest and shirt to examine the ruin of August's torso, as if he had not witnessed his death first-hand. There is no lie intricate enough to cover up the truth of his wounds.

_ A strike of dark spikes to the torso, piercing multiple internal organs, including the heart and lungs, causing an immediate collapse. _

The professor insisted that Ferdinand stayed behind at the camp, keeping ready to join the fight only if reinforcements are needed.  _ "It is just a hunch," _ she said. _ "But I'd rather you stayed away from the bridge." _

Hubert never believed in premonitions or visions of the future, and he did not believe in fate unless it was defined as a logical result of the very nature of a person: their personality, their desires and beliefs. If their choices were not their own, what was the point of trying? And still, he keeps asking himself if Byleth, divine vessel, piercer of the veil between worlds, somehow saw this coming.

He finishes his report and moves on. The death did not wait and they each deserved his attention.

Almost an hour passes before Hubert is informed that General von Aegir has arrived. He thanks the messenger and finishes two more reports, until he decides that it is enough.

His back hurts, his hand is stiff from holding onto the quill and his eyes burn with fatigue. He is not ready to face Ferdinand yet, which means that he is as ready as he'll ever be.

As Hubert lift's the tent flap and ducks his head to enter, he is surprised to find a perfect calm within. Ferdinand sits next to his lovers lifeless form, legs tucked underneath his body, his back straight, unmoving like a statue. His hair is tied back and tamed within a braid, his preferred style for riding; only a few strands frame his face. His expression, usually a whirlwind of emotion, betrays nothing.

"I am sorry for your loss," Hubert says.

Ferdinand stirs ever so slowly. A blink, a shift of the eyes, acknowledging Hubert, but not offering a response.

"I know this is very soon, but... as you know it is my duty to inform the families of the fallen soldiers. I wondered if in this particular case, you would want to do the honors, seeing as you knew him better than I did."

Again, he is met with silence.

"Of course, if it is too painful-"

"I did not know him  _ that _ well," Ferdinand interrupts. His hands, resting in his lap, are intertwined in a tight clasp. He lowers his head, digs his thumb deeper into his palm. "We only started seeing each other. But... thank you for your concern. I will gladly draft the letter for his mother." A pause, measured in heartbeats. One, two- 

"If you would spare a moment to tell me- what happened?"

Many little things come to mind, pictures, fractures of memories. Lysithea grabbing onto the professor's sleeve as Byleth draws her sword, begging her to spare a life. Ignatz Victor, screaming as shards of glass bury in his face. The frame of his glasses lying broken on the cobblestones of the bridge, reduced to twisted metal. A spell charging the air, feeling like a mouthful of coins, like gums bleeding-

His tongue is tied.

"Hubert," Ferdinand says more urgently now, "what stupid thing did he do? Why did Lysithea attack him?"

Hubert takes a deep breath, relief easing the tension in his shoulders. Considering their history... Hubert makes for a better suspect. "Who told you?"

"No one. But I know your magic." Ferdinand bends forward, hovering a hand over the body, pointing out the wounds. "He was nearly torn apart by the spell. If it had been yours, there would be a trace of licorice and cinnamon clinging to the body. All I smell is something like old blood, and I  _ saw _ her, at the infirmary. Lysithea. She was trembling all over, not even Edelgard could console her. So I reckon that something went terribly, terribly wrong."

"We met some old friends on the bridge," Hubert says. He takes a step closer. Then another. He could have sunk to his knees and pulled Ferdinand close, if he was less of a coward. If he was less of a recalcitrant fool, who had given Ferdinand nothing but rejection and harsh words in the past. Bernadetta is right. He needs to learn how to translate his unfortunate affection into something more constructive. "Leonie Pinelli commanded a regiment of knights and Ignatz Victor was among the archers who protected Judith von Daphnel. When we marched forward, Lysithea got upset. She wanted to save the boy, she pleaded to the professor to incapacitate him and let him flee, but- as they hesitated, August saw a chance to attack. He wanted to take out an enemy. She wanted to save a friend."

Ferdinand closes his eyes. He draws a shaky breath. "And Ignatz?"

"He was moved to the infirmary, with the rest of the wounded. Although I can make no presumptions as to the state he was in. You will have to inquire Linhardt for more information."

"I might just do that. Tomorrow." Ferdinand sighs. His brows furrow.

As far as Hubert can tell, Ferdinand is still quite himself. A reassuring thought, albeit a puzzling one. "I have to confess, I feared that you would take the news much harder."

"I-", Ferdinand startles. He looks up, mouth still half-parted - and immediately lowers his eyes again. "It is horrible, of course. What happened to him." He picks up one of his locks and runs his fingers over the curled tip, again and again. "But I don't... we were not... so very compatible in any regard. The truth is, that when we last met up, I decided that it would be better to end our relations, and I told him as much. He... did not take it gracefully, but he accepted my decision in the end."

"When?", Hubert breathes. The first and last time he was so unfortunate to run into the two of them, they had nearly ravished another. Not a week has passed since then.

"The night we celebrated the professor's return. I left the celebration upset - about Jeritza, about me fleeing from Jeritza, about you being, well, insufferable as usual. I had promised August a rendezvous, but by the time I got there, all I wanted was to spill my frustration and so I talked and paced and talked some more - he did not listen. He was bored and unmoved and asked if I had concluded my 'silly antics'. And that's when I knew that we would never care much for one another."

Ferdinand huffs. Brushes some invisible dirt from his thighs. "So. That was that. It's a shame that he died so young, without a chance to grow into a better man, and it feels strange to see him cold and pale and ruined, but it is not like… his death does not crush me."

He rises, a little stiff, rubbing his knees after all that time of sitting. "Well, I think I imposed on your kindness long enough. Look at me, going on an on, moping, and not once did I ask if you are well." A noise of frustration, another deep breath, focusing, until he met Hubert's gaze again, dark shadows under his bright eyes. "You look weary."

"I am well enough."

"Uh-huh," Ferdinand says, the universal code for  _ I think this is a pile of horseshit _ . "I reckon you did not give yourself a moment of rest after the battle and dove yourself right into work. How long have you been on your feet, Hubert? Nine hours? Ten? When did you last eat?"

Hubert brushes a thumb over his chin. "I can look after myself," he says. "You're free to stay as long as you want, but don't let me keep you from the infirmary."

"Please." He takes Hubert's hand in both of his. Warm and calloused and  _ firm _ . "Let me do my part. Linhardt has all the hands he needs and more besides, so, if you have work to share, I will take it. Any task you can entrust me with, no questions asked. We can discuss it over dinner-"

All day, he has stained his gloves with death, yet Ferdinand was holding onto him as if he could not let go. Hubert finds it hard to look away, the startling display of bared skin. Square knuckles mapped with faded scars, prim nails, but the skin surrounding them bitten until it was raw and pink.

He stares a little too long. Ferdinand's fingers twitch and he withdraws them quickly, presuming an offense.

Hubert opens his mouth to decline, when a pang of hunger twists his stomach, a wave of nausea rippling in its wake. And Ferdinand is not wrong: he  _ is _ weary. So weary that it becomes hard to focus his eyes on the writing in his files. "Fine," Hubert grumbles. "If it means that you will stop your incessant nagging."

And maybe it is the exhaustion, but the gentle smile that bursts on Ferdinand's lips seems sweeter and riper than any plump fruit Hubert could have sunk his teeth in. He wants to claim it.

* * *

An attempt at courtship was made. Or, at the very least, Hubert tried to smoothe over their past differences by offering some niceties. So he sits down at Ferdinand's table while the knight is having some quiet time alone for himself, enjoying a nice cup of his favorite blend of tea.

And yes, perhaps it was unwise to bring up Lady Edelgard's superiority, a subject that Ferdinand was so touchy about. Or to accuse him of tactlessness. And what was he supposed to do when his attempt at praise was met with disbelief and mockery? Any man might panic and call the subject of their affections a 'contemptible degenerate' to their face.

Well. It is no use denying that he failed spectacularly.

_ Unsettling, _ Ferdinand had called him.

Should he try to pick up pen and paper right now to retract the statements he made earlier? If he lies out his intentions in writing, when he has all the time in the world to mull over the words and when he does not get flustered by the light catching in copper locks-

But oh, who is he trying to fool? He is not made for this.

_ Like a snake trying to sing an aria. _

And what happens to a snake if it tries to sneak up on a pegasus? It will be trampled, stomped to death. If he were truly to convey his feelings to Ferdinand, his hopes would be snuffed out just as mercilessly. Oh, Ferdinand would try to be  _ kind _ about it. Hubert shudders with disgust as he pictures the pitiful smile that he would receive in return.

He would rather drink his foulest poison than suffer this fate.

  
  


When Ferdinand tells the story to his friends, Dorothea laughs, loud and unrestrained, and she does not stop, not even when her face grows pink and tears start to run down her cheeks. She laughs so hard that she snorts like a pig when the catches her breath through her nose. Lorenz sits a little further away from her and rolls his eyes at the undignified display.

They have occupied the council room for this very urgent conversation. Ferdinand paces, treading a firm path into the carpet. Hiss eyes keep darting to the door, as if he is afraid that at any moment, someone would barge in on them.

"And you are distressed... why exactly?", Lorenz inquires. He pours himself another cup of tea with the long-suffering expression of a man about to weather a storm. "Because Hubert handing out insults is nothing you are not used to. And as for his half-hearted compliments-"

"Half-hearted! Lorenz, you weren't there, those were  _ genuine _ compliments, and he voiced them despite his distaste for me. And then I suggested that if he must do it again, he should put his compliments in writing - and he  _ agreed _ to it."

He stops, abruptly. His hand flies to his mouth as he realizes-

"What if he  _ does _ begin to send me letters? I could not just accept them saying nothing, no, this rewards a _ response,  _ does it not?"

His thoughts race and branch off, like brightly colored threads in a tapestry. He might establish a correspondence. They could share their ideas and thoughts, like true peers. One day, they might even reach true kinship-

_ You are romanticizing _ , he stops himself.

"I think you are worrying about foals that are not even born yet. Besides, you owe this man nothing. Wouldn't you agree, Dorothea?"

Dorothea takes a deep breath and fans her heated face. She needs to clear her throat twice before regaining the ability to speak. "I think... if he ever does write, you owe us to share these letters. I can't even begin to imagine what sort of weird flattery Hubie would come up with."

"Dorothea!", Lorenz calls, offended. "That is the opposite of helpful."

"Oh, c'mon Lorenz, you know as well as I that he'd never do that. Every moment that he does not spend working for Edelgard's cause is a waste of time to him." 

"And what if I wrote a letter first?", Ferdinand argues. A tremble sneaks into his voice. "Do you think he would be compelled to an answer?"

His friends acquire a set of matching frowns. They exchange a glance, a passing silent conversation.

"I would not want to presume," Lorenz begins, "but he seems to abide the rules of common courtesy rarely enough. And even if he does grace you with a reply, who is to say that he will not default to some foul-tongued slander?"

"Right." Ferdinand sits across from his friends. The chair groans underneath him as he slumps down. Ferdinand raps his knuckles on the table. Reason. He ought to listen to it. Lorenz tells him nothing that he does not already know and he would do well to crush the seed of hope before it can fester into a proper disappointment.

"Why are you so hung up about this, Ferdie? It's just Hubert being weird about things. It doesn't have to mean a thing."

"N-no, of course not. You are absolutely right, both of you. I just always assumed... that he despises me. All that I am, all that I represent. That his opinion of me is and always would be clouded by prejudice. But if that's not the case-"

"He called you a contemptible fool," Lorenz reminds him.

"Degenerate," Dorothea corrects.

"Right, I did not repeat that word on purpose,  _ really, Dorothea _ ." Lorenz runs a hand through his long purple hair and  _ tuts _ . "So. We have every reason to believe that your initial assessment of his character is right and thus every assessment of  _ you _ that he might harbor is irrelevant."

"Dorothea? Do you agree?" Ferdinand digs his fingers into the wood of the table until his knuckles start to hurt. There is still a part of him that tries to argue against what his friends reveal to him so plainly. Because he knows Hubert. For the past five years he has seen glimpses of true kindness behind those harsh words, even if it rarely extended to him. And the behaviour that Hubert has shown today... he was not being his usual self.

Some of his turmoil must show plain on his face, because Dorothea leans towards him, and places her hand on his. A ring glitters on her finger and Ferdinand recognizes it by the shape of the stone. It is the one that Ingrid had given her, the one that Dorothea has shown him when they rode out to the lake-

"Ferdie... are you feeling alright? Did you drink enough? Have you slept enough lately?"

"It's not  _ that _ . I'm not... not getting ill again, Dorothea." His cheeks burn, his ears grow warm with embarrassment. He does not sleep too well - then again, who does? - but he is feeling like himself. Present, rooted among his friends. His hands are steady. 

Dorothea is not yet convinced. "You're working yourself up over a small thing. I know you care a lot about what other people think, but you hate Hubert-"

"I don't."

She pulls her hand away. Lorenz' eyes widen and he says "beg your pardon?" at the same time that Dorothea blurts out: "what do you mean, you  _ don't _ hate him, you haven't had a single nice thing to say about him ever since we enrolled in Garrech Mach."

"I may have developed a more... nuanced view since then. And I know this sounds strange, but, if I am entirely honest, and if the choice was between love or hate, I suppose it is closer to... the former?", he tries.

"WHAT?", Lorenz shouts and is subdued by a coughing fit.

"Saints, you even sound like him," Dorothea mutters. She props up her chin on her hand and puffs up her cheeks. "You really do have a horrible taste in men, you know that?"

"Wait it's not like  _ that _ . I am not in love, I never was, I just wished to express - oh, nevermind. I assure you" - at this, he jabs a finger in the air - "that I have no romantic delusions about what kind of man he is, but I will admit a certain... fondness. An  _ appreciation _ . And I value his insight. But that is  _ all _ ."

"Well, good. Because I have met with a lot of tolerable men-"

"Hear, hear," Lorenz mutters, and Dorothea slaps him on the arm without even looking. She goes on, undeterred: "My advice is, do not give him even a minute of your time until he has learned to treat you with a modicum of respect and politeness. Set boundaries. Make demands - reasonable ones! - and if he does not behave appropriately, he can burn. Don't you let him play his cruel games with you."

"That's right," Lorenz adds. "You deserve someone who graces you with all the proper rituals of courting. And while I doubt that he is capable of elevating himself to your standard, I do hope that you will find him either worthy or disappointing enough to get over your infatuation."

Ferdinand hides his face behinds his hands. They are not listening. Worse yet, they are making a mockery of his affections. The mere prospect of Hubert von Vestra,  _ mooning _ , or engaging in follies like gifting him flowers, declaring his love in song - ridiculous. Preposterous. Ferdinand bites the inside of his cheek to refrain from grinning - caused by nerves, not amusement.

Let this conversation be a harsh reminder that even if he were to reach out and establish a correspondence, Hubert would not want him. It is easy to tell from the way his face screws up whenever he catches Ferdinand becoming overly familiar with a man. Or the way he freezes when Ferdinand inadvertently touches him for a moment too long. No, nothing about Hubert's behavior implies that he would enjoy the amorous attention of a male suitor and in light of the rumors that have begun circling about Ferdinand, accusing him of all manners of fleshly desires, he can be grateful that Hubert wants to associate with him at all.

(And desires he has, why deny it? What is pleasure if not a physical conclusion of a tender devotion. If he had love in his heart, why was it anyone's business how he showed it, why did they even care? But these things were  _ private _ . Confidential. What kind of wicked soul would drag them out into the open?)

Of course, there are worse things to fret about than reputations, especially now, but the thought of Hubert turning away from him in disgust... it would wrench his heart.

"Ferdinand?", Dorothea asks and takes one of his hands, plucks it carefully from his face. "You're awfully quiet."

"Just thinking, is all."

* * *

Letters are written, revised, half-scratched out, and eventually sacrificed to the flames.

It is not that Hubert lacks in complimenting words, rather he risks spilling too much of them once he begins, like a trickle of water that swells into a flood. Left alone to his contemplations, ink and quill and parchment work some strange magic on him that compels him to truths that he cannot admit to a single living soul.

_ You stand out in the battlefield, just as you stand out in a crowd, _ his treacherous hand will write.  _ And while the bright colors of your garb make you a target, it also means that my eyes can find you amidst the greatest of chaos. I catch myself searching for a dash of white and burgundy whenever I feel my morale sinking. Your dances are not for me, yet I am invigorated by the grace with which you command your strong limbs. _

He tears the lines to pieces. He drags his quill over phrases of  _ when the winter sun sets its gentle rays on your hair, your curls are transformed to nothing short of molten gold, a feat that not even the most skilled of alchemists have achieved yet. The icons of our ruined cathedral pale in comparison to your beauty. _

Crossing out what cannot be known.

_ I do have a heart, even though I never made much use of it. And as you are so intent on prodding at it, you might as well take it out of my chest and claim it. Keep it in a jar somewhere close, a spare, for you keep on throwing your own heart to people who do not deserve it. _

His folly is making a poet out of him yet.

_ If I had another life to live, I suppose I could dedicate it to you, to learning the mystery of how you manage to commit yourself so entirely to everything you do. How do you love so openly, so loudly, how do you bear to carry such an abundance of emotion inside your heart every single day? _

The first letter that survives Hubert's merciless editing is delivered as they prepare for their march on the Alliance capital. He leaves it on Ferdinand's desk as the man is out on a morning ride, weighed down by a golden tie pin that Hubert has searched for longer than he cares to admit.

_ Ferdinand, _

_ it has come to my attention that you are still claiming the kitchen at the most inopportune hours. Now, while none of the staff take offense at your behaviour, in part because you pay them so handsomely for it, the frequency of your sleepless nights has started to worry some of our companions. If there are matters that worry you, let this serve as a reminder that you are surrounded by people who are willing to lend an ear. _

_ Bernadetta is the one that stands out most to me, although I am aware that you are not without confidants. _

_ And the next time you find yourself awake and restless, consider taking a cup of tea instead of your nocturnal baking ritual, I am sure your skills will not suffer for it. After all, the last batch of ox eye cookies you provided was... more than agreeable. I was rather fond of the orange jam filling, a nice touch to complement the sweetness of the marzipan with some bitterness. I presume this choice was also made in light of our dwindling supplies of redcurrant jelly. Do remember that sugar is becoming a rare commodity, will you? A batch of sweets once or twice a month will suffice to boost the morale. If you find that you cannot restraint yourself to that extent, you might consider assisting the kitchen staff in preparing more essential baked goods, such as the daily bread for our troops. I recall Mercedes saying that working with yeast brings its own difficulties, but I am sure that you are more than able to rise to the task, if you set your mind to it. _

_ Let this be your reminder that you are valued among your peers and admired by those serving under you, and while we all appreciate your ambition to be useful to the cause, you are more than just a cog in the machinery of this war. You are dear to (scribbled out word) people. _

_ I have not forgotten our argument at the night of the professor's return. You accused me that I did not put my trust in you. To keep secrets is the essence of my profession. There is information that I do not even share with Her Majesty, small details that would only serve to aggravate her. I leave these things unspoken in order to protect her and I usually do not share the details of my work with you or any other member of the Strike Force for the very same reason. It is not a matter of trust, but you gain nothing from knowing the affairs that I handle and in the worst case, it would make you a target for our enemies. _

_ But I also have to admit that you were more than justified in your anger, in particular when it comes to the subject of your former paramour, Gerard von F. The decision to dispatch him was not a solitary one, however, one should have called for your opinion, as the crime he commited was a breach of confidentiality against you. He was caught distributing sensitive information and upon further research I discovered not only a startling lack of character, but also that he had fathered three children with two different mistresses before he came to Garrech Mach and was doing nothing to provide for them.  _

_ Perhaps my error was thinking that removing him without any further explanation would cause you less pain than the truth of his betrayal. Perhaps I should have counted on your strong sense of justice.  _

_ I hope you can forgive me the means that I used to dispose of this man, and my silence when you came looking for answers. _

_ Yours, _

_ Hubert von Vestra. _


End file.
